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Encircled by the roundabout of what life could bring.
The beginning changes like an outburst of spring.
No wonder no one can tell the end of what lies ahead in life.
Yet, there’s always hope when the days are worn-out.
To the bitter end of doomsdays outlived— we shout.
The circle of life is outside of the untainted norm.
In days unspoken we can all find pieces scattered.
What makes mankind mad?
What is it?
Is it the ancient dreams outlived?
The circle of life is like pills swallowed whole.
In dying hopes that what is lost can be in a storm.
In a storm, days of perfect get crashed like light in a fog.
The whole shebang must return to a state of completeness.
As seen, even before the daylight sets, it clocked in a log.
How grand is the day when we all return to our bicycles.
After all is done, human beings walk in sporadic cycles.
No wonder there are no uniforms outside of disorder.
All follow a pattern, but life brings everyone to order.
We don’t get to know ourselves outside of our own circuits.
Another year is lived in idealised state of dreams.
Another ear is cut off from the wry circles of streams.
The circle of life repeats itself until there’s no sound.
The circle of life repeats itself until the lesson is found.