The ride is
a sickly set of statues
circling,
an ornate beauty
of predictable movements.

A carousal of fools,
stallions set stern in silence,
a caravan
of unwilling men
and women
that never stride
outside
the pre-ordained.

I watch them
still as mannequins,
eye set in the same positions,
seeing and thinking
the same thing.
They do not listen to
or hear the words I sing
when I try to bring
them their freedom.

The circle stops,
plastic bodies drop.
Paint chipped
they all dip
and rise no more
as I go on to explore
everything, alone.