Cycles

A belly dance of memories,
being eternally carried on in my dead head,
while some brush stroked canvases,
set the stage for them.

Cycles of time, painted in memories.
Cycles of memories, going on and off,
with every imagined laugh,
and misery.

Cycles. Cycles of joy and of pain.
Cycles, some plain as an induction plate.
Cycles, of a tiny-gigantic you.
Cycles of a lonely I looking for you.