Wheel

It spins, and yet again, towering before us, retracing it's perfect circle against the sky. All the seats are occupied and have been for all time. I hold my ticket tightly, and believe that I am next, but the hum of impatience and desperation presses upon my back, and l fear I will lose my place. The line is quite long, and the faceless forms breathe heavily in the darkness.
But the wheel spins without deviation. It has always been so, as has my longing to be on it. But the curvature of the wheel
is a perfect circle that allows for no infiltration. And that same constancy will hold me to it, for as long as I have eyes to see.