A Poem on the Website of
the Red Dirt Writers Society

by Beth Stephenson (Nov 2010)

The Carousal goes round and round
The horses travel up and down
And no one ever seems to care
That no ones getting anywhere.

Each time you pass I reach my hand
To pull you off it, if I can.
Our fingers almost touch and then
You choose to go around again.

You’ll complain of the same you see
Same rhythms and monotony
And visit places where you’ve been
Pain, disappointment, hurt again.

And when the carriage seems to slow
And your steed brings you very low
I will reach out my hand, and then,
You’ll draw your fingers back again.

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Revised November 2010.