Joystyless's poem is about how small our social worlds can become. The speaker keeps returning to the same idea: we are "children of our time," moving through circles of friends that we think we have chosen. The poem's structure copies this. Almost every line picks up the last word of the line before it, so "circles" leads to "friends," "choice" leads to "fate," and "time" leads to "when." Then the opening lines come back at the end, and the poem closes where it began.
The speaker seems both thoughtful and a little uneasy. Choice sounds like freedom, but the poem says our choices "devour our life with chance of fate," as if luck and timing matter more than we admit. Who we meet depends on when and where we happen to be. The mood is quiet, reflective, and slightly dizzy, like walking in a loop. It leaves you wondering how much of your life you really choose.