It is offered on the knee.
It is heard from the door.
From the coffers of our needs
From an exquisite store.
It hangs from the ceiling.
It hangs to seal links.
Turning off the game right from the socket.
The climax of plight, lone
Quite evident in our children.
Worn in a coitus,
Thrown in the gutters
Never secondhanded,
Shedding a load off our mothers
It runs unending.
No edges of any sort.
It runs on endings.
Karma running its course.
It is carefully chosen.
No outsiders in the flock.
It is not usually open.
Until one consciously runs amok.
It is synonymous to the world.
And ranges in size.
What is it?
