This Carousel.

Lo, this Carousel…

Whipping ’round this Hell.

Rotten steeds impaled,

Ancient mirth dispelled.

Lo, World Top spinning,

Grasp! Rictus grinning.

Hold tight, Hope thinning,

Self: “I am Winning.”

We. Always forward.

Move. Never toward,

that trusted canard,

Reach and reach. Reach Hard.

I, at least, can see

Dreams, hand-spun and free.

This Carousel’s spree,

Absent, I, not me.


© All rights reserved, 2017.

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