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One leg loops over the bob in flight;
The other joins it, encasing the brass,
With clenched molars cracking
At the core of the embrace.

The pendulum always returns.

No matter the reach of its scopius arc,
At each zenith we find breath,
Cross-legged, and baited as ever,
Clutching a carrier bag full of hope.

The pendulum always returns.

A landscape of possibilities,
Viewed from the curvature,
Offers coin-chewed hope
On this skinny, periphrastic pirate’s ride.

The pendulum always returns.

And here, on the third ellipse . . .
A living, beating, obdurate pause
That surely deserves a smattering of applause?
Physics stands, curtsying with a low bow, for . . .

The pendulum always returns.

Thighs clasp tight around the knot
Of this bulbous, existential, potential.
Swooping eagerly in, along,
And regretfully out of time’s kitchen sync, and yet . . .

The pendulum always returns.

Ad-infinitum to the beat of the drum,
Smiling and grimacing, t.b.c and so on.
So, hold on, hang in therein, and on.
There’s more anon, for you and I.
Aye.

Because.

The pendulum always returns.

 

 

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