Things always seem to wind up, then crash,
Like the tops we spun as children
Winding, winding, winding,
Till it circled it’s dizzying path across the dining room table
Reflected in the polished walnut.
Then plummeting over the edge
Into oblivion.

The happy, ignorant, whirling top,
Not knowing its misfortune
Until it meets the floor.
And rolls, rolls, rolls,
In gravity's death throes.