History Repeats Itself Poem by Keel Lincoln

The hands move around the circle of the clock,
They know of no other way in which to do so,
Coming to the end of their journey, they’ve reached the top,
And once again, their same travels begin through,
History, as they say, repeats itself,
Time and time again,
As with every turning of those hands,
Repetitively it repeats the turn,
I’m beginning to believe it is true,
My life tends to show it when it can,
Life bunting me into the random,
Of strangers to which I oddly linger,
Trapped into my memory as a memorandum,
Of when I was torn from my rapture,
As my heart shattered from a horror,
Waiting for the wound to pass,
It finally does after long last,
Now, yet another came into my life,
When you entered into the room,
I longed to speak, but the air from my lungs had been thrust out,
From the collapsing of my lungs of the excitement that seeing you brought,
What little air could be pushed forth for words,
Would stumble and waver as they went,
Lost feelings peeking from behind my scarred heart,
Not wanting to risk this thing to once again start,
As history repeats itself,
And this would also end in such a way as the others,
I would see this clock broken,
So the hands are forsaken,
And history won’t repeat itself,
If the hands cannot pass from the top,
This pattern must right now stop,
So though you seem interesting,
You are quite appealing,
I can’t let myself be intrigued by you,
For this clock will turn the same way as it always has,
So before I’m actually really longing,
To be out with you and frolicking,
I do my best to stop these feelings,
From revealing,
Attempted to sealing,
So there not even being,
And cause the repeating,
Of pain in my soul,
Then I may somewhat still remain whole.