Circles

The cats pajamas are torn,
the bees knees are rheumatic,
and I'm all out of special affections
to keep things colorful.

Drawing new conclusions
with the changes of the wind,
I have been anchorless,
floating lonely, adrift in blue.

Aphorisms and metaphors
collected while lost in cliche
anger, taunt, strain me
to the point of very little return

Just before absolutism,
where my feet refuse to tread.
And, waiting, I smile at what I know:
We are alive, and that is enough.