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Merry-Go-Round
The world is my spinny-top, said the girl
on the merry-go-round; it curls between my fingers, she said.
Her pastel skies melted into fools’ gold as familiar voices cajoled and urged,
Stay on,
No,
Get off.
When she finally steps off the merry-go-round, she is
an old woman. The skies are frayed, ink-blotted, tarnished,
and the world has crept on.
Familiar voices echo in her skull, but only ghostly fireflies
born from carcasses remain
to illuminate the sleeping forms that bred them.
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