The Wheels Go Round and Round

Existence, existing and then the emptying out, the exit. X marks the spot where dots are always laid to rest. I have been pulling a little red meat wagon existing just before its hard rubber wheels, the wagon goes clickity clack, snick-itty-snit, bumpety bump uphill or below, it is eager to run me down always keen to bark my heels as I drag it over a shadow shoulder of a pre & post being. On-board a self-dissolving, yet always open mouth, must consume its spiced drops of acid and honey. It sometimes sleeps, sometimes dreams, it is a presence of a presence, just a hairsbreadth between this now, and not now - gulp of living. Inevitably, we will part, separated by the raw knuckles of push and pull, until a lit exit door in a long defunct shopping mall lights our way to the promise of oneness.