around and around

and this too,
these words, this
stream of
conciousness, this
string of thoughts
pretending to be
a poem, will
tumble to the
floor and slide
away without so much
as a whisper between
the cracks of
the floorboards
of this merry go
round where the music
is loud, a kaliedoscope
of pianos out of tune.
and the children scream
and hang onto
the hard plastic
horses and unicorns,
the paint worn off
their manes,
faded into lime, once
green, and reds now
pink. their eyes
are bent, afraid of
being left, seeing only
the blur of their
world going round,
searching for their
mothers, for the love
they want and need,
but will never get.