What I think is not in sync with how
the world is turning.
Like an incohesive puff of cloud
caught in wild rotation
at the wrong pole of the globe.
Jostled by the thunderstorm
of life building in a path,
pulled along by inches facing backwards,
reaching out with fingers
streaming wisps of present into past,
circles undoing into spirals
that tangle, unravel, drift
away and out of sight.
Clock ticking counterclockwise
against the race of time,
day and night a struggle
needing to break free but
weaker, weaker as the storm
wears me to nothing,
less than a moment passing by.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology