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
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.