Cotton candy wafting through sticky nostrils,
elephant ears scalding youthful throats.
Bucket seats rise, legs swinging careless and free,
time marches, its passenger a tightening throat.
Peak ever approaching but forever distant
until rusted support erased from sight.
Gone.
Stomach-floating fall, first warning tardy,
Mr. Ferris and his giant wheel grind on,
rolling inexorably clockwise to unlit, mazed depths.
Direction, distance? Compass-spinningly unknowable like pi.
Feline, liver-twisting Schrödinger possibilities,
quantum combination of head-spinning heights
and world-tilting, whirling neon descents.
Always in motion, this finite flow of time,
until our visceral unicycle ride finds its graceful end.
