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Fast; the circle has no beginning, no end,
my friend I tell you – there is if care
is taken to note the mark a mistaken spark
within the melted miles that go
round the sound the echoes of time
sublime – a spot that differs in composition,
a transcription of position from silver
to gold, of stories untold that unfold
around the edge of the abyss of nothing,
nothingness.
The circle touches every direction, each
inflection of the passing, from past to
present to future, casting doubt
aside inside the pathway taken
never forsaken, from then until now.
Now the circle ends, portends closure;
instead, the circle unwinds
bending the binding ties that keep it strong
unknow, a mobius strip alone for the future
to diving keeping in line with the Creator
as I, the spectator, watch it glow,
watch it grow with mystery
into the history of the past.
About the Creator
Barb Dukeman
An English teacher by trade, I’ve spent 32+ years in the classroom, instilling a love of literature (and a tolerance of writing) in my students. I started reading at the age of three and started writing at 13 with a poem about green socks.
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