The Compass


Where one is fixed
And the other
In the centre sits
And sits and sits and waits.

Where one is still
And the other roams
The two hands further and further spread
To draw a circle just.

Inextricable, while the distance spans
It matters not; 'twas in God's plan
(The only choice that I have no part.)

As far as space should separate
The tie, the joint shall never break.

So this is the compass—
The other foot obliquely runs
In desperation for the line it draws—

For your firmness makes my circle just
And makes me end where I begun.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem