Nothing gets better. It circles itself,
Like a dozing housecat on the sofa,
Imagined by its befuddled owner
As wise, as imagining the sublime,
Although the owner knows, tranquil as cats can be,
That no cat is ever, actually, wise.
The owner, cat, and circle are complete.
Riddle me why coincidence is mere
Whereas meaning and purpose are profound,
And I will be the cat on your sofa,
Utterly dependent, seeming aloof,
Curling my thoughts in one perfect circle
Of sublime, snoozing wisely all the time.
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