Mire.

Thanks to your simple prose
within which I lay transfixed
upon meticulously crafted lines
and self inflicted tricks.

Forward march, and the hand
held by cumbersome ties,
placated by visual randomness,
and lifelessness inside.

Fragile strands of your writing
chits in unsung minutes of delay,
clamped to my saddened skin
those ribbon games we played.

'Its your wheel to make China'
and me, I'm the clay that hurt,
the leftover wet sand today,
lies stitched in dismal earth.

Therein, you unlost the dirt
believing you made ground,
songs which spelt haywire
bludgeoning their own sound.

So sit timid, atop your ferris wheel
screaming plots through wire,
I'll stay, twirling rhymes and
doing my best in sorrowed admire.

Tonight, we'll lose rationality, smitten within
minutes lost to wholesome wits,
And I'll melt away searching for
those sidestepped verses and chits.