If I knew what to call it, I wouldn’t write an entire poem
Around and around we go.
Like some perverted record cut long ago to an endless groove,
we spin ceaseless circles orbiting a tired spindle all but dead.
I never wanted this.
We never wanted this.
Yet here we are, engaged in this corporeal chess game.
The board has changed time and again
but we pawns remain the same:
still blind and inept.
Lost on the circle-slide,
riding and spiraling down.
This pain aches in my bones.
I grow tired of holding it in.