Poetry

Circular Breathing

A spinning top spins

on the edge of a cliff,

gradually wearing away the chalk.

As the last bit crumbles,

the top falls, plunging

at such a speed

that it doesn’t have a chance to stop

rotating.

On its way down,

it disturbs the breeze and sucks it in,

tasting all the places the air

has traveled,

knowing that the particles

are much more than just

what they are.

Then the top hits the water,

and the knowledge is gone.

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