I circle the same old questions,
like beads on a restless thread,
tying and untying the past
around my sleepless head.
Thoughts run in ritual loops,
soft drums in the back of the mind,
every answer I almost touch
slips, politely unkind.
I replay the moment of choice,
freeze-frame of a trembling will,
as if time were a stubborn wound
that refuses to heal, stand still.
Yet even in endless return,
a small brave whisper appears:
maybe this turning is not a cage,
but the mind learning how to steer.
For in every obsessive ring
there hides a seeking flame—
not madness alone that binds me here,
but hunger to remake my name.
So I walk my circles with grace,
not calling my spiral a sin,
until one day the loop becomes
a door… and I step within.
