flung, head over heels,
as if you’re catapulted by your own convictions
lights flash by you – memories
blurred afterthoughts;
there is no way you can concentrate at this speed
relax: you’re in this for the ride now
no choice in the matter
no way to get off;
there is anticipation of when you’ll skid to a stop
focus on a street light
feeling comfortable on your back
staring into the night, the shadows, and the light;
ghosts dance overhead
a ritual step to annoy you
to prick your consciousness and
stir your soul to crystalize
(this is a cold world
and you’re part of it.);
shake the aches out and get up,
pick yourself off the pavement and walk
take the steps necessary to stride again
if there is the will you can find a way.
– Chris George
1990
