Six hours
Your head spins,
full as a tornado
that will not end,
strewing ideas
and beliefs so fast they become
unrecognizable,
paralyzing,
as their current pulls you
over the falls
into the rocks below
where you are left
to die
or dance.
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I spent an extraordinary amount of time writing yesterday, with nothing worth reading to show for it. A place most writers have been so this is not a whine, just a fact. But that experience DID result in this short poem this morning. Nothing is wasted.
The picture is of Niagra Falls. I am told that a few people have actually gone over it and survived, though it is hard to imagine.
Tom
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