When do strands
turn to fetters
And when they are,
how do they fray,
and snap.

When do words turn
sterile and cold,
and turn into
words,
nothing more.

When do expressions
turn contrived,
blase, pithy,

cold, at times

muted.

When does it
begin to make
sense, the madness,
and sanity, sidles

back in, warily.

When things come,
Full circle?