The world is whirled in Space
And hurled in moving ’round the place
Which centers on the Sun.
In golden light is rolled and spun
And bowled, this tiny fold
In Time, to chase
Itself in circled run
To heat and crack
Its peaks and caves
And tumble corpses
In their graves
Like some berserk psychotic clown
Who first builds up and
Then tears down.
A geoclastic schizophrenic,
Artist’s eye for the scenic,
Makes and breaks
In random spasm,
Seas and seasons,
Crag and chasm,
Elephant and
Microplasm.
Roiling, boiling, coiling, spoiling,
Unconcerned for good or bad.
Split with lightning, grumbled thunder –
Is it really any wonder
Humankind is plainly mad?
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