The Devil’s Carousel
What trap? What trenches?
What factory? What mural?
I’m low on answers. I paint when
I can. This morning a maniac
smashed my hands and feet
with a wooden cudgel.
Forgive me if I’m moving slow.
The clock’s limping. Shift bloated.
Billion tiny parts.
Repetitive labor pressing me.
High-tension, higher cost.
I find my mind drifting.
Skull throbbing. Work on work.
There’s a blank canvas
waiting for me.
Paintbrushes and starlight
call my name.
Palette real as my yearning.
My escape plan.
My life jacket.