Centrifuge [sonnet]

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centrifuge

The structure of the Universe dissolves
and I am riddled (w)ho(l)ly through with joy.
It took me by surprise; what it involves
is not what it had seemed. It’s all a ploy!

I have to laugh (this mirth will never cease);
for even poets cannot frame the thoughts
which best describe that simple soul release.
Our prison-mind the stuff of life distorts.

We’re all just flesh-wounds on a roundabout
of twisted time (that’s how it seems to be).
To step off from its centrifuge without
a parachute will make us sane and free.

So now all I can do is wonder why,
despite our wings, we never choose to fly!

.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2017

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