Disconnected

The way a moth hovers on the other side of glass,
And cannot break in,
Stuck in the air that thickens around it,
Struggles to open doors.

Like the weary traveller,
Sitting outside the circle of stories,
Listening to the sounds the old grey woman in the centre makes,
Not stories,
Sounds.

The stars, spangled in midair,
Strangled in twisting threads of fire and burning,
Understand the falling star,
And why it breaks to its death.
There are, but endless roads to freedom.

Where do circles lead?
And who, in the moths and stars and waiting horsemen,
Searches for the centre?
.