I can no longer find a place for myself:
I go.
There are too many things to detain me,
But the force behind is reckless.
Noise, uproar, movement
Slide me outwards,
Black sleet shivering
Down red walls.
In thick jungles of green, this gyration,
My centrifugal folly,
Through roaring dust and futility spattered,
Will find its own repose.
Golden lights will gleam out sullenly into silence,
Before I return.
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