The Forever Song

Askew, broken poles
lean outward,
while rust cracks
the chrome
that once looked
so new.

We’re still spinning.
Rictus grinning
neighbors on flanks
run circles.
The same circles…
concentric daze.

The forever song
drones from the center,
like flecks of foam,
rotten spew,
on the rotten teeth
of a maniac grinner.

It won’t stop…
It’s wound too tight,
our spinning top.
the only recourse
is to slip our poles
and be flung to the night.


© CGT, 2018.

Talk to me.