The old merry-go-round,
scratches into action.
Once again curling its spurs.
Horses, fixed horses.
Going nowhere but a-round.
Make them gallop.
Make them jump.
Work them though they’re crippled,
by years of repetition.
No canter to a quick end:
The cold rusted gun.
Stroking a silver mane.
The click submerged beneath
a steam organ drone.
Burned beneath a pile of wood.
Delivered to the atmosphere.
A ghost rider in the sky.
And the old merry-go-round,
scratches into action.
January 17th, 2020 at 10:38 am
Lovely work Sean