The world spins ahead
Spins underneath
As my own head turns
There in time with the earth
And tears itself apart in search
Of being what quiet serenity can be
(And whatever personal tranquility is)

Though previously known
It had to of been
And madly I go on therein
Beside my own self being in hope
Of my old returning self to be
Full and mildly free
Of this hope built upon hope itself

That I am not spinning, it's just everyone else