My head is home to things that never seem to last, such as:

Shrieking and fluttering bats, and bats,

And porcelain teacups that tip and crash, and crash,

And houses of mirrors to smash, to smash

And scavenged pieces of my past, my past,

And things that move too fast, too fast,

And pictures of people that flash, that flash,

And bursts of color that clash, that clash,

And endless pages of fake facts, fake facts,

And things that move too fast, too fast,

And whips that sting and lash, and lash,

And shiny sharp knives that slash, and slash,

And things that move too fast, too fast,

And things too sweet to last, to last,

And things that move too fast, too fast,

And things that move too fast, too fast,

Andthingsthatmovetoofasttoofastandthingsthatmovetoofasttoofastand—

Stop.

Suddenly.

As fast.

Things.

Do.

When they hit.

Walls.

Because.

They couldn’t.

Make…

Themselves…

Stop.

Because they may never have been meant to last, to last.