Time and distance linger on,
while souls loop to stay true.
Round about the spinning mold,
waiting to find those few.
Whispers call, and voices shout,
demanding for that one.
Human hearts grow fickle and cold,
except for a hopeful some.
Measure and seek,
scientists help us find sequence.
Spherical plots go back and forth,
and my heart is still living in remanence.