Parabola

The futility of it all 
  like an empty curve
   subscribes the space wherein I breathe
    and I, diminishing,
     become as clear as air, as moist 
      as cloud 
       until not really there
        a film of lies 
         a reel, conjecture, 
          no questions asked
           no answers plucked
            the ground, lost stones,
           suffice
         and the dance itself
        alone with its perfect form
       a perfect rose, a curve, 
      I rise slowly in the sun
     raise my arms in recognition
    then evaporate before your stare.

I was never, really, there
never did complete the circle
efforts valiant
but misplaced.

I became too cold, too dry,
to reach my pot of gold 
the arc was lost
and there was
nothing left to do but nullify.

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