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Who Am I?
I am mixed.
The top spins, unable to stop.
Vibrant hues mask fear and longing.
Conditions worsen,
But it refuses to stop.
The earth and sun shall not break the top.
The dribble of society shall not break the top.
It shall overcome.
Cracks are coming.
Age is but a number,
Yet they are held in a cell.
Colour washes away.
Slowly spinning,
Slowly spinning,
The top is almost there.
Where to; they do not know.
It calls on every one of them a benediction,
As the years of gyration seem to be enlightening.
It must go; it knows this for a fact.
For the not-so-vibrant hues that
Used to mask fear and longing are evident.
And although it has not broken,
It knows where it is going.
Age and time, intertwined on the caduceus
Lead the way.
The top slowly spins towards
Somewhere.
Where to; they do not know.
But the top knows now.
And it is coming.
Slowly, but surely.
Coming.
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