- Books, Literature, and Writing
Flying in circles inside a jar,
round and round, the air is thinning.
The colors are too many,
blended in one, a streaked blur.
this is for our silver mistress
time lay in a tangled heap,
still counting down slyly
but here we have found infinity -
when we create these brilliant stars
and stroke our golden lustrous pets
it was but a selfish infinity
like a swirling cool darkness
still, this is peaceful,
we hear our closed minds say
And then we died when the jar broke
because the world was too small
and wouldn't rest in our infinities
She was supposed to walk into the winter,
and search for her lost friends.