The ring spins in tipsy circles
it’s little strip of flesh
dancing to some whispered music
held in the breathless void
by some unheard tongue.
Incessant flaps of its tied limbs
swing in cognate circles,
creating a phantasmal cosmos,
a passing guise of reality
warped over it’s two-headed chasm.
Caught in the spinner’s trance
sucked into a tale of fallacy
tricked out of the truth
cursed to live unto some end,
we, on a faint, delusional cloud.
Some day, when lore fails,
the parity shall break
and in a swish, take into its holey gut
the world it made.
Life’s cacophony shall then fade,