A perfect square circled zig zagged straight,
4, 1, 7, 9, 3, 2, 5, 6, then there\'s the eight.
Shaped, numbered, named, listed and then it\'s forgot.
Distanced, close, standing it\'s waiting on its spot.
Today, tomorrow, the past is futured to be gone.
Shadows crawling creeping misshaping fears spawn.
I wish the perfect square could keep its form,
every time it straightens it creates a storm.