We are all a little something
human—fragile packets
of bravado and bone, dread
to be alone
but destined for it.

We all deplore it, this existence,
in metered amounts—
twelve teaspoons of having
no thing figured out
for every drop of felicity.

Yet we go persistently
into tomorrow, thrusting away
today's wet weight
with jazz-age paddles
unfit for the cause.

What else do we have,
but to be
without pause
until our fatal
interruption?

To be caught up in
falling down?
Until we're ashes—winding round,
and round,

and round...