Where I go, there again
too and fro , back and forth around in circles
square dancing in tired triangles
take your head along a body bicycle
route unknown, trying to out wit the very wheels
whipping your body along lanes lined with icy dread
treading in circles
cycling backwards reversing up and mounting pavements
peculiar shapes bumping along broken and battered statements
staying with it only to veer wildly off into a thicket
scrambling to understand the mumbles lines praying for
some kind of saving agent, ageing, waiting for sane moments
I'm not crazy.
I just can't outrun my brain.
by Paul Sinclair