Still, the sun rises.
Even if I were to write no poems and fall mute
the sun, still, would rise.
That is both infuriating and comforting.
Things are not that bad to stop the turning of the earth
and the swirling of the cosmos;
the power beyond me continues to be beyond me
that is good, I whisper
as I continue to find my place
© Meissan Chan
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Curving toward the center 