poetry, writing

The Pattern

Pattern after pattern, ever changing, but also repeating

It’s amazing to watch the patterns unfold.

The standard routines, almost the same from day to day,

but slowly shifting into something untold.

Even the major upsets, the chaos, the disarray,

these start to become more routine.

The changes continue to play out,

but no longer do they feel unforeseen.

Is it we can’t help creating the patterns?

Or is it all preplanned and now our turns?

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