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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