Days will turn to weeks,
as tyres don't skid on slicks
& I become pale & meek
unlike a pineapple's ******

She's lost in her own space,
thinking of the Luna race,
A toss turn dream personified,
watching comets catch on fire.

There's no point accelerating
If we are forever sitting idling.
Bees die in jars with lid holes
No freedom to be their whole.