The Original

Nothing original can exist in a circle of light,
Even Time is repeated as past and present, day and night,
Every moving wave is summoned by the previous wake,
Illumined thoughts and ideas come from another authors take.

A million eggs open to reveal a million new hatchlings,
All are the same and nothing created has different wings,
Even if we grant that siblings differ in their appearance,
And old unimaginative genes dictate the circumstance.

The poems and songs of the spiritual mind step very near,
To the universe of original thought but fail to hear,
The cries of past writers who trespassed that same open sky,
And take flawed praise for the newness of their copied reply.

What can we say is original in the vast open sea,
But a constant Ferris wheel of repetitive misery.