The word cycle comes from how things revolve around,
Hearing the echo trace the edges of a sound,
As it circles and rotates, then finally rebounds,
Shifting the uncertainty into an assurance that hounds.

I am a half chewed apple you can trace back to a tree,
A three-way split mirror with 3 broken versions of me,
A silence you can familiarize with an epiphany,
That what's inevitable has no other ending than to be.

Circumference, border, assigned seating.. are all just names,
The ink ran out when I tried to curve the sphere I became,
No matter where we run the beginning has us trained
To sniff every pattern, till the cycle is ingrained.