Running In Circles Poem by Paul Brookes

Running In Circles



Words on the page give no immortality,
they are flashes for an hour memory wiped.

we are what we write or write what we are,
the edges blurred lines where reality starts.

writing for fortune's fickle fame that dark muse
keeper of hubris and false truths

waiting for quixotic glory's a childish game
and words on the page give no immortality.

Thursday, November 5, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: life and death
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