The rain knows
when my heart
feels heavy...

Reality is a circle
It is infinitely long
and always round
Ending where it begins

We are all running on it
Towards what we think
as the direction of faith
But ends up meeting our own selves
in the direction we oppose

The circle is a being
Full of tricks and games
And as we walk down to rest
We are trapped inside

Until we run so far
That we see our selves
Weeping or dying
On the street

And what’s real
Might become fake
Reality
Might become a dream

Like a circle
Ending where it begins
Until we pushed so hard
That we fall under it
And become
A mirror
Of a reality
Which the circle lives

Where are you?
They buried you
in a sleep in the air
so I must mourn you
everywhere;
even with this poem,
this cenotaph,
this memorial
to the notches
you left inside
your son.