Wanderin Circles Poem by Andrew Lawton

The burning of flesh leaves a poor man weary.
Sick; drained out.
He doesn't really care, does he?

He wanders about-
Why could she possibly feel ashamed?
A solving of a mystery in progress.
Yet, not knowing; he's the one running.
He doesn't care does he?
Who'll get the blame?

After a few dodges; a stone hit his head.
He looked at himself in his eyelids.
Now he wants to be dead.

He really cared, dear.