Poetry and Writes

Wheel-Turner (POEM)

finally I'm not sleeping anymore, a dry pod comatose in the drought

that opens and spills and disconnects in the rain, a puzzle once more, confounded by the events of life and its wheel

that spins the seasons, is spun by an omniscient narrator that decides if I sleep, decides when I wake

I grovel under the thumb of the wheel-turner, the ever-turning being that secludes my doubts in winter caverns, makes me blush in summer, makes me this way

a dependent seed pod, alive but not

unless I give into the inevitability of the wheel-turner, under its ruthless all-knowing thumb, being squashed and twisted like a mosquito

under that wet thumb that moistens me with rain, makes me open despite my reluctance

but maybe not even the reluctance is mine originally, maybe it's all a hoax perpetrated by the wheel-turner

do you know what it's like to never know if your thoughts are your own, like what if the wheel-turner is making me spout these atrocities

atrocities I am an atrocity a mindless parasite to the mirror behind me and the wheel-turner that put it there the wheel-turner that I have

lodged a stick into so its infuriating wheels stop turning, so just for one minute I can see what its face is behind its turning spinning blur----

NOTE: Thank you for reading all of the figurative acid-trip that is Wheel-Turner! I realize that it was insane and made less than no sense, but sometimes that just comes out of me. Especially when I'm writing at four in the morning.

--KingfisherBirdLady