The Circle

Into the bad lands, good lands maybe, a man, stands alone, amazed and in maze, surmounted by syncopation. The bells tingling; sounds of utopia, a life-soin-well, when the waters quell. In all directions he swells, boos and woos, accosted by ovations "I will........." He turns and fidgets, his eyes into circumspection who is my brother? Many voices, little minds brilliance predetermined, by the circle! What makes a man? his surrounding may be? scratched by a mind to create labelled by the zeal to stretch. The weaker the lines, the dark it may stand; only the eyes know the magic of the circle. jb wisely ug