The Wheel

At the dawn of each new day we face it.

The Wheel.

The Wheel serves no purpose.
It takes us nowhere.

And yet we're trained,
Obliged,
Obligated,
To get on,
Get running,
And start the damned spinning.

The cycle begins anew.

On we go,
Each time hoping we arrive at a new destination,
With desire and determination
And the promise,
The empty promise,
That this time,
Certainly this time,
We'll actually get somewhere.

Only to look around
As The Wheel winds down
And find ourselves right where we started.

Still in The Cage.

Yet each new day
The Wheel calls to us,
Shiny and sparkly,
And oh, so attractive.

Beckoning us to once again climb aboard,
To wear our weary feet to the bone on its cold steel rails.

The endless squeak of the fucking thing
Echoing in our ears,
Drowning out our thoughts.
Drowning out our dreams.
Deafening us to the world around us.

The world outside The Cage.

Until we forget it exists.

Until nothing else matters.
Nothing but The Cage
And The Wheel that keeps us running in endless circles.

The perpetual, spinning Wheel.

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AUTHORS AFTERWARDS

I'm no poet.

So I'm sure I've probably broken every rule to poetry there is with this.

I don't really care.

Sometimes rules were made to be broken.