Merry go rounds on the old playground, peeling paint in various patches one can almost make out shapes like a cloud. Spinning and staring up at the sky, forces pulling out and down enough to pretend one could slide away. Filling in the gaps to the story with images swirled around.
Little hands grasp on to the bars with such desperation as littler feet try to keep up. All force being propelled through and into the earth. Running as far as the body would go but never to any distance away. What does it mean when holes are worn underfoot with not a mile moved? Staring at fences as both a cage and a barrier, wondering what the world presented.
Laying down without being ill is a trick and skill, one honed over time. Flat and staring singularly above maintains the composure. Don't let out a breath - wait. Here we can. Here we can sing, scream, laugh, sigh. No need to lay still and hope for no contact. Watch as the sky flashes by! Joy and peace interlock fingers and take me away. Soon there are no problems. Nothing is fast enough to catch the merry go round and the souls who ride.
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PoetryA collection of poetry across ages, moments, and confusion. Tw - read at own desire
