Lost in the roundabout

So many get lost in the roundabout.
Seeing the same signs over and over -
not recognizing the miscued territory.

Optimistic that their ploys will at last
succeed; unaware it’s the device
that’s broken - not the field of play.

I never believed in burning my bridges,
whether or not I intended to use them;
ever looking ahead into hopeful vistas.

Until now, when I hear my trails snuffling
behind, tagging me as bait - pointing at
the ruffled composition of my existence.

My dreams have gotten so small they fit
inside my pocket, rubbing against loose change;
a rattle to entrance as I muddle to and fro.

Once I thought I was waiting for something,
some grand realization of self and spirit -
now I know the emptiness of that aspiration.

Cause I can see I’ve been here before
and know where the scent leads - into
a state of ingenuous gratification.

I leave my shackles fastened to the thing
that holds me in place, as the minutes fade
and I watch the seasons roll away.


© 2002 Melissa Songer