Thread needle.

Born of greed and crooked deals,a wheel within the turning wheels sat silently in space.
Slowly it began to spin and swallowed worlds within its gaping grin and moving fast,at last it came into our view.
Those who knew the reason why decided there and then to die,while others waited on the street,
the seven seas were sucked up through the cracking of the sky and then the oceans were all bled dry and soon the ancient moon we knew so well,followed suit and went to hell.
Each man prayed as in a chain, as they were hoovered up to drain into some blackened hole,where no soul escaped their fate.

Around the edges where the blind and crippled wait for another slight of fate the wailing was intense and yet only weeping silence could be heard.
And in the silence cogs ground round the spinning wheels where crooked deals by crooked men were bent into another shape and then spat out somewhere,
somewhere I do not know
but somewhere where the crooked people go and the innocent went too.

To populate another planetary zoo and see the tigers howling now,with no teeth they become the sacrificial cow and priests of people devour their flesh.
The cogs re-mesh the wheels moves on and one more world,eaten and gone
and our turn will come
as surely as the sun will rise our oceans will spill from the skies and we will die to suffer for,
that which we have suffered long and before you say,’never in a million years’
ask yourself,
what is it that the bankers fear and why is it that year upon year their interests rise as looking into the darkened sky,they search for somewhere far away,where they can move to and play another hand,one more deal,escape the ever spinning wheel.
It all makes sense to me
but I already see the turning of the spokes.
copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved