The Inconceivable Void:
Spirals begin at zero and swirl until Infinity.
They curl and unfurl from nothing like spread margarine.
They warp tombs and temper temples.
They spring like winter from summers fall.
They expand like the ever-growing universe into endlessness.
If I were a spiral I think it would be ok to cry sometimes.
As a spiral I would spin causing dizziness and friction.
I would feel unworthy of co rotational mmunicaion
for the fear of a burning ear.
I would invite myself to parties and then dervishly evade,
with sporadic wisdom.
I would whizzle past landmarks on my way
to the middle of nowhere, for I would know
only patience.
If a birds song were somehow swept within my virtical vortex,
I would hear it sceptically: Such sounds abound that spin around deceptively.
Trusting in voices and senses is a linear task no spiral can unravel,
but a spinning top slowed by the weight of smoke might question its direction of travel.
Perhaps I would be a tornado, and encounter sharks.
A shaky sharknado? I might well end up eaten,
but the wind is ever whimsical and cares not about such things,
it forgets and forgives, and moves on from fish,
chasing once more those with wings.
If I ever paid attention to people I would ponder on their fondness for faces.
A hurricane such as I could not fathom their flixtubes.
Do such creatures take their bookmails with them when they die?
Should I nudge one from a window to test this theory?
Should I continue on in the clear sky?
For now I will whirl on restless in this new age of steam,
and in time become no more than a wisp.
I will learn little and remember less than nothing.
As nothingness sets in I will meander like butter
in a fibreless gloom, like a cold draft
in a dark abandoned room, past ruined columns
and crumbling stone, scattering
leaves, coming to rest in the deathly hallows of home,
forever
circling.
