The Perfect Loop

Another turn, another street,

and every house looks just the same.

Another perfect, neat retreat,

whispering a quiet, nameless shame.

I ended up here once before,

the GPS a looping guide.

Each lawn too green, each polished door,

nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

Just circles, perfect, round, and slow,

a dead-end made to look like choice.

Where all the paths you think you know

just lead back to this tired voice.