The spinning wheel moves beneath the eyes,
Rolling again,
Pat Sajak left for the evening,
I’m not smart enough to put it together
Without Vanna to spin the letters for me.
Fade into the audience,
Clap along with the barking seals
As you watch the show from the outside.
Once the biting begins its all you feel
Even when its stopped.
The phantom limb never leaves completely;
It catches you off guard,
Like the popup restaurant
Invading your street serving the finest in insect cuisine.
A puzzle wrapped in the enigma or just a door that doesn’t want to be opened…
Yesterday blends into tomorrow,
Passing over today
Leaving only the bitter taste of regret.
The uneaten stands in the way of any hope of dessert.
I need a new wall to beat my head against.
Spin relentlessly like a leaf on the wind;
When life tries to drown you it rewards you
With only trying harder its next time around.
It saves the shit shake for you next walk past.
Do load stones grow tired,
Long to be cut free
Float down into the murky depths.
I’ve never gotten it right,
I choose the wrong door each time
Can’t find my way home until I’m shown.
So many turns as the frog
That you slowly become the scorpion
Waiting at the river for a ride.
Your tricks fall flat,
I see the strings
I’ve read the playbill
I know what comes next.
Surrender to the churn,
Break me down and spit me out,
Return to the Vomitorium.
I grow tired of always chasing sunbeams,
They escape between your fingers.
I need to stop playing with twenty-five sent words.
Why do I keep feeding this festering weakness;
It pushes me like a beggar
Empty bowl in my hands;
Forever reaching out
With no one reaching back.
If I could pluck you from my mind,
Dump you in the fire,
Let you meet the hard smack of the hammer,
Mold your shape into what I need
Not what you want.
I look everywhere for a third way,
Where I won’t need to cut the futures throat
With the bones of the past.
Walking the path in reverse
Won’t lead you out,
Moving forward wont lead you out,
Sitting still won’t lead you out.
Might as well spend another day trying to outrun my shadow.
Do I turn your stomach the same way I turn my own?
At some point this slow procession must come to an end.
Seasons come and seasons go
But when the day ends
Were you the leaf, or
Were you the wind.
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