Talking Circles

There’s a circle on the ground. But it’s too small for me to hop into in search of unity—or perhaps wholeness. It’s evident someone cast it from afar, in search of another like them.

I would’ve fathomed this phenomenon. But the Kwame Nkrumah Circle is no more. It’s now an interchange of bliss. And the ring for the nuptials is deeply buried in my back pocket.

A circle speaks in a language that expands or contracts. Unless the truth is spoken, it strangles the dishonest and lets their bodies dangle in the imagination of those who plant evil.