A marble spinning round a rim,
Is to its carven path a slave,
Never to escape its course,
Which daily circles, spiraling.
Whatever lies within this ring,
Is out of reach: the marble's grasp,
Extends no further than the rutt,
On which its sullen course is set.
To circumference ever endlessly,
Yet know within there lies much more,
To never know more than this taste,
Is how these wasted marbles spin.
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