It rushes past me through the dust
This and that, a kid on her gust.
One reach to her heart and over.
He is turning his spinning wheel.
It glances in the city’s dust
At teens and tanners, leaves them mussed.
One dirty farewell and over.
He is turning his spinning wheel.
It waits behind me in the dust
This and that, like a sexual lust.
One look in his cist and over.
He is turning his spinning wheel.
It floats around me in the dust
A cortege in our moana.
One look in my cist and over.
He is turning his spinning wheel.
“Death may be the greatest of all human blessings”.
Socrates
I am happy about how my poem turned out, especially the rhythm and imagery. I hope that readers understand the message of it, as I feel like it might not be totally clear.
Greta, I love your essay. The repetition of the word “wheel” as well as the rhythming really made this poem feel complete. The image especially was a great addition.