The Interception Of Our Circles

The splintering shadows of our grief surround us,
With the innocence of superiority.
The nature within our tragedies;
The hidden lines beneath our minds,
That hold us with the ins and outs of our will.
The surprising and darkening of its every curve reflect us.
As his hanging clock embraces his inner reflection.
The outer core is a painful prick to the finger.
Beneath it is soft and smooth.
A magnificent display of a cluttered masterpiece;
Such a gentle to the touch.
But it plummets down from the spiral staircase.
It drastically drops from its whim.
For inside he is only human.