Words in boxes,
Thoughts in (mail) chains,
Feet on the line –
Walking the co-ordinates
Between work, home, and somewhere safe.
Our conversations – flat, crest-less waves
Our minds – tangent to the same
Our hopes – iridescent, like prisms
Still reflecting some errant rays.
Our fingers fettered by little squares,
Our eyes ensnared by obtuse stares
That struggle to make sense
Of the endless spiral of days on days
And our lives, themselves, an illusion
Of concentric circles
In which we try to seek the origin,