Merry-Go-Round

Round and round I go,

convinced the next turn

will take me somewhere new.

But there it is again—

the same blank pages,

the same old faces,

the same old shade of blue.

The music keeps playing.

The horses keep running.

And somehow,

after all this movement,

I'm still where I was hours ago,

standing? Waiting?

Perhaps doing what I've gotten used to—

hoping.

Like I hoped weeks ago.

Months ago.

Or even years ago?

Only to end up

back at zero.

What is the point of trying again

when every effort

seems destined to end in pain?

What is merry about going round

when I still feel lost,

with no way of being found?