My feet are stuck:
tacked down like so much carpeting
and the clock is fast and slow
and frozen and returning to the same place
too quickly for the eye to consume.
And behind my head whirl and blur
And twirl and slur a dozen blades
thrown like so many cutting words
at my poor preposterous head.
And my steps are slogging,
syrup poured up to my knees.
And my arm outstretched
in (silent) desperation
cannot find what it seeks,
which may be realization
or escape,
but either way is battered
like so much cake
by those lexicographic knives.