Round and Round the Roundabout

The wind tugs –

upon sore muscles now lax,

against bony fingers wrapped around chilled metal,

through thick black strands

of midnight nightmares

that stick to sweat-strewn face

as you open your eyes to reality

from the cocoon of hot sheets.


The rain falls –

droplets which spread in unison

dissipating over aching hearts

trembling atop a heart

and I watch

as the dark stain of liquids

spreads across your thighs

your chest

your stomach

and continues.


The fog thickens –

till shadows begin to rise,

grasping at dark edges

and hauling themselves out

of their sleepless slumber.

With shapes of rolling obsidian

that caress your soaking frame

leaving charcoal streaks

until from the rain it all blurs

and you become as black as them.


The hands push –

sliding across icy surface

nerves now numb for hours past

lost in the timelessness

as I continue to gaze

and push

to keep it spinning –

as if it was a clock

turning back time

until you moved once again.


Yet time keeps ticking

and the roundabout keeps spinning

not halting the flow of time.


So round and round I watch

as your limp frame

is carried along

the roundabout.


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