GYROSCOPE

The sublime death

of what I’ve built up to become

humming centrifuge is spinning true

and building up my scum

a rumble for a tumble

ready wicked ether filled and wrong

I cannot break a sweat

till we have met

and righted this bells song

the end spins round a central point

fixed and unrelenting in its

unmovable joy

and I cannot begin to exploit

explore my senses

right the tenses of this

tinker toy

 

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