The Performing Toolmakers

The magic circle is a gilded cage
Of many interlocking polygons,
A safe that its builders cannot escape,

Since they built the safe with no awareness
Of what the safe was for, and now it’s safe
To say that it may have been building them.

But it seems like a fossil without them,
The ruins of its walls slowly sinking
Back into green vines or under the sands,

And none of them have been able to live
Outside of its safe circles since no one
Yet knows when. Hearths and sites of performance,

Of workshops, and of laboratories
In them, unsurprisingly circular
In definition, build adaptations

Into prisons. So let the games begin
Again, the technology, the progress
That magically encircles empty ends.