For I in range of 42:
Looping for purpose,
Strange iterations yet to be,
Yet strangers iterating now is all that I can see.

Though you and I both orbit
the same gilded star,
Tracing these circumferences
never got us far.
For every cycle we accrued there was incurred a loss.
It seems that our trajectories were never meant to cross.

Pain stings, and its truth is incisive and cold.
Running fool’s errands?
Better be content with trickster’s gold.
A barely noticeable spark of love has sadly passed us by.
Only to vanish hastily into the end of time.