It's a curious thing, the last piece of cereal.
Abandoned by others, those whom which it fits
Its peers, its friends, the place to call home
Everything it needs fails to persist
It floats, side to side, up and down, left and right
Never stopping, never resting
Never reaching where it belongs
No side of the bowl provides solace for this one
How could they, when the round sides bounce it back to the center?
The infinite round trip weighs it down more and more
It sags, feels heavier,
It's drowning, hopelessly
Travel is tiresome and there's no break in between
Will it end?  It wonders
Will I ever leave?
Anxiety won't cease, and it won't feel ok
Until, at last, the spoon saves it from suffering anymore
A scoop to safety
A start to a trip
No longer dependent on what failure-filled guesses it makes
No longer will it search for the right direction to go
It is taken there
And is satisfied
Content to not be in control