metatait

Walking circles in sleep
Till I can't get out
Of ruts in the floor.

Ground grooves and glass.

These walls are worn
On bent shoulders,
A cloak of routine
Weighs each ponderous step
With a lining of lead.

When eyes fall
Beneath floorboards
I stop and climb out.

Time to wind
The next ring around
and around
This one won't cross its own path