Circling its prey
Every sinew curves
Into a winding path
While it’s burning bright.
There’s comfort in its trajectory;
Lives don’t move in straight lines.
Perhaps I too will come round to where I want to be
Through bends between trees in the darkness.
Or is this just a fantasy I choose,
Solace in my own winding path
Before the weight of the world
Lands on my back?
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