Of ashes

This is a vicious cycle, of how the ouroborous chases its tail, unable to escape its fate. The wheel turns, the world moves. Soon the fires will burn themselves into embers, soon all that is left will be grey, charred ash. This, too, will pass.

 

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Ouroboros

And so the games begin yet again –

Clarion trumpet shattering midnight silence,

Cannon fire signalling yet another casualty,

on this war-torn battleground of arteries and veins.

Another war another victor,

Another portrait to be hung.

I have my trajectory imprinted onto the back of my cerebellum;

I know where this goes.

Years of disappointment weigh bitter on my soul,

Curdle in my stomach.

Always, it has eluded me.  Always, we want what we do not have. 

Still, I spread my wings,

Head towards the amber glow,

Spellbound even as they crumble under the onslaught of the flames.

Like Prometheus, I am doomed to always have my heart torn out, devoured.

Listen. The eagles are descending.

Even as I shut my eyes,

steel myself against the pain,

pray this time will be different –

The cycle repeats itself.

I am a snake fated to always chase its own tail,

To orchestrate its own destruction.