somedays
are spiraling
escalators
on which
there is no
sense of up
or down
just an inane
constant motion

if you stop
concentrate on
one spot for
a moment too
long the vertigo
snaps while
bile slowly
bubbles in the
back of your
scratchy throat

i wonder
am i only the
only robot on
the assembly line
to gain sentience
as the whine of
gears follows
a dessicated
cadance to my
metallic ears

spiraling
laterally through
the bluebells
in waves of purple
lining the highway
longing for a
home that hasn’t
noticed my absence
a haunted house
devoid of the
demonic entity
as brimstone sparks
one more night
in marshall