A cycle, they say—
round
and round,
with no beginning,
and funnily enough—
no end.
It seems everything
is about you.
It is,
and still
it isn't.
One might
find themselves
believing
that everyone
is but a character,
that this—
this is nothing
but Ouroboros.
Ouroboros
is Ouroboros.
Life
and death
are the same.
You
and others—
same.
Your life
and theirs?
I'd say
they intertwine.
You'd say
we are all
different.
Yet still—
we are Ouroboros.
We all eat
our own tail
as we live
and die,
spreading ourselves
into the next.
Is it the business
of others,
if we are
Ouroboros?
What happens
if we're not?
What happens
if we are not
Ouroboros?
This is the principle
of Ouroboros—
it is real,
yet it isn't.
There is no snake
devouring itself,
only a man—
or a woman—
killing themselves
by living.
Ouroboros
is Ouroboros.