I was not born of god and muse.
Pictures of virtuosic health  
captured in epic poetry
that I don’t want to write.

The music I make charms my world.
Trees and rocks
obey not the wind and current,
but the meter of my songs.

You too fell for tricks of snake,
though my tune called your name
long before they evaded my coil.

Forgive me, I won’t question your sleep below.
For even the rules of your warden dictate
you can’t look forward
while you’re looking back.

I could be your Orpheus.
Which is to say that even after death
you won’t get rid of me.

I could be your Orpheus,
but with the way his story goes
wouldn’t you say I’m probably
more like his lyre.

The carousel so pretty
I thought to take a ride.
The animals so shiny
I look so good astride.
The wind blew my hair
I laughed with childish joy.
A universal playground
For every girl and boy.

But pretty things can dull
And toys can break apart.
Not everything is wonderful
That pulls up on our heart.
Sometimes someone falls
Right off their chosen seat.
And sometimes someone
Doesn’t quite land on their feet.

The merry go round
Keeps going around
Even when the music
Is a sad, pathetic sound.

Children have a sense
That a toy is always fine.
They might see it when
Fate crosses the line.
Often nobody catches
The rider when he falls.
Nobody hears the cry
When the rider might call.

So, it’s all about fun, then
And laughing out loud.
Riding circles in the sun
And waving to the crowd.
But life can change quickly
Or so slowly it is unseen.
The joyful noises of life can
Become something obscene.

Careful on a merry go round
Don’t turn your head and cough.
It’s a moving proposition
And you might fall off.