Cycling Seasons

Whether it’s angels I chase,

Or the devils I flee,

The trails are my place, 

Where I go to set myself free.

But I don’t cover any ground,

And I arrive where I depart, 

For the trail circles back around, 

Bringing me right to the same start. 

This pointless ride’s all up and down, 

A mountain peak before a trough, 

My smile turns to a frown, 

I see the trail never levels off. 

On this path, I’m getting beaten, 

And, I can’t control my own pace. 

I can feel my body weaken,

And my feet start to displace. 

As I walk this crumbling foundation,

The tilt of my axis goes askew,

World spinning from this unhinged rotation,

The cycling seasons feel like Deja vu.