Wanderlust beckons
when tired at twelve I retire
to the cluttered comfort of thoughts
disorganised - birthday cards unwritten,
missed calls of penultimate importance.
Midnight or noon?
Your conversation is static; I choose
to ignore the writing on the whiteboard.
The days go by too slowly here, dawn to dusk
spans an eternity of its own.

We will accelerate, then, picking up the rhythm
as we scuttle along, the pulse
of our hearts dictating every movement.
Train tracks run the length of our minds
speeding on the back of grey cells and flashes of consciousness.

It's over!

The world spinning faster and faster
centripetal forces acting on the merry-go-round of our lives.


Days that pass with heat but not warmth
the sunlight refracted through crystallised seas.

No more!

Everything in time. We are caught in a
whirling dervish. Acres of white muslin trail behind us
in the sun.

a/n: well technically speaking a whirling dervish is a person, but here I simply mean the dance. ah well. xD