The Whining Wheel

Something is rotten in the state of me.

Something has run afoul.

My ear itches and I think:

perhaps this is the poison,

not sleep-sudden, but constant,

insidiously swirling through the

everysphere.

I can’t seem to get away from it.

A life drawn by Escher,

built by Stairmaster,

ruled by gravity;

For the purpose of my grave.

I have become the whining wheel,

a clattering tin woman,

in need of grease,

in need of repair.

But frailty is not my name.

My thoughts will cycle round again,

for even the poison is not bad or good.

My substance feels a shadow of a nightmare,

but I shall wake tomorrow,

and find a balm to soothe

the raging of my mind.

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One Response to “The Whining Wheel”

  1. […] as I can during the remainder of the month. For those who missed it, I did write a poem called The Whining Wheel earlier this week/month, which was partially inspired by lines from […]

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