Perfekt Cirkle Poem by david e golledge

It’s everywhere.
This ubiquitous nothing that occasionally
makes it all make occasional sense.

It’s held in the untamed hearts
you ceased to see,
in the many things you
meant to me. And more.

It’s in the voice almost
a primal scream, in a life
that’s lost and turns
to dream. And less.

It’s in the ocean waves
appearing briefly to burn
then crash then fade.
It’s in the perfect bloody circle
a bullet with your name
once made.

Beauty, even in death.