returned to the same desk,
the same grindstone, the same thoughts,
cyclical patterns of thought and action,
but which comes first?

the will slips, the cracks widen,
and it all floods in, easier to understand,
caught within the same ropes,
you spun from woes of a broken past,

and they were meant to help climb out,
but the grease that bounds the threads,
cannot be grasped by those unresolved,
to the reality they crave most,