I will not write one more word
other than those which rise on their own,
without my preset notions of what is real.
I see a world spinning out of control,
a globe spun by frantic hands on its curves.
It sits atop the desks of politicians, bankers and CEOs.
Perhaps the world merely sits in its place
and it is we who spin tales and define its space.
Perhaps it is we who determine earth’s pace.
Perhaps Earth is the mother telling us
“Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Leave your brother and sister alone.”
“Stop causing trouble.”
Perhaps it we who are spinning
out of control.
annarino writes 