A rambunctious ritual that revolves round’ and round’ for a rapidly rising road of rain and rocks. A poetic post this is, perhaps, pushed by parents for picoseconds and picoseconds, to produce this pathetic poem of pure ponderous pandemonium. And an alteration to another addition, all admire an amazing alliteration.

Has been a minute but feels like years,
Following through mud, your deadly fears,
Your eyes are fogged your nose is runny,
Your wheels are bogged your feet are honey.

A squeak is coming, underneath,
A brake is rubbing, underneath,
Your hope is there, underneath,
Your home is where, underneath?

In gray canvas you do try to rest,
With devils on both sides you do your best,
A kick, a jab, a mortal cry,
why do we do this, why, why, why?

Another dawn rises, but does not really,
It goes down then up, but not completely,
A half awaking not so gently,
And on again for another rough journey.

Is it a hotel beyond?
tis just a pond.
tis where we sleep,
where angels weep.