His days of weal run round the sun; his nights of woe are less so. I think you'll find that he, in kind, runs in the circle he can find.
And when his weal is run round again and I am left alone with him, we spin, revolve, return replies, until we're all fed up with lies, for truth, you see, returns us where we need to be: the center.
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Poetry, huh? I like the idea of running in circles. I mean, clearly, the speaker isn't terribly fond of circles, but I rather love them.
ReplyDeleteMaybe it's a poem about futility. I don't personally know. I had no great burden to write. I just wanted the words out of my head.
ReplyDeleteFair enough.
ReplyDeleteAll that being said, I prefer to read it as a poem about being lost and finally being content, which are two separate problems, but the second can still solve the first.
ReplyDeleteI like that interpretation when I don't connect it with satisfaction with mediocrity and unfulfillnebt.
ReplyDeleteBut then, it could be anything.
ReplyDelete