Ouroboros

My fingers explode onto the page with 

deep reds and orange spirals that seem to cave

in on themselves forever, like a snake contorting

to eat its own tail, lacking the foresight to

consider what would come of him, what of me? 

I fall backwards into a bed of flowers, 

surrounded by stretches of glowing green

pastures, the fluttering of wings and the

buzzing of bees all that accompanies me,

besides the vultures circling overhead, waiting

for my collapse. 

Lifting my head is suicide, and I’ve 

been told countless times to see it through,

presumably until the end, that is, if time is

something that ends, or repeats itself ad

nauseam, while we make sense of the bleak implications. 

Had I been any wiser than the snake? 

Finding solace in a fantasy, where thoughts

wander, no – plummet, surely me with them,

as the snake's grip tightens, yet I find myself

focusing on the patterns left by

the ripples in the lake.