untitled (flung, head over heels)

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.

 

РChris George   

1990

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