Poetry Journal Feb. 24, 2024

 

 

We keep coming back to the same place,

Riding on these merry-go-round horses,

Reaching for the golden ring we never get

Always assuming it will come to us

 Our next time round, but never does,

This landscape of our dreams never changing

As if painted on the walls of Plato’s cave

To convince us what is unreal is real,

When nothing about this ride ever is,

Illusion piled on top of illusion

Until we can’t trust our own minds,

And she, circling back again to a place

She knows she been to before,

Not because she expects to find

Someone there waiting for her,

Rather hoping someone might be

Holding out the gold ring for her to grasp this time

So, she doesn’t have to go around again.

 


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