Listen to poem:
Rush
Swiftly on a carousel
With a swivel-headed lizard.
Rushing to beat that loathsome bell
As she raises distortion to blizzard.
How can one write in a fortress of ice
In a mummified husk
With the spirit all sliced
And knuckles as white as polished tusks.
Rushing to complete without passion
Fruitless in pasting composure
Peace is not here now in fashion
In this house, not a home, where I had her.
Teetering on a precipice
I can neither backspace or go towards her.
Punishment for a youthful fleece
Or the fear of flying forward.
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