the pattern still

all day all night the swirling mass:
impinging, rushing, cuffing —
we can true love the pattern, and
the pattern still mean nothing

we bathe in insignificance
and dry with our endeavor;
a ritual we do with care
on tiles of forever

then look into our mirrors, thinking,
“this deserves attention” —
the images we learn to love
just past our comprehension

all day all night the colors change,
our joys mixed up in sadness,
and it is for our hearts to find
some meaning in

the madness

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