Speed Up

A dozen bright and golden sights.
A fearful walk through imagined frights.
A sound like that of a trumpet horn.
A burning thought nevermore unborn.

Why are books so dreadfully long?
Why are facts so frequently wrong?
A dozen answers spin around and around.
The truth of the matter is hard to be found.

Ears that listen and mouths that speak,
Windows that open and doors that creak.
Creepy creepers that slyly skulk,
And a whiny child in a wet, cold sulk.

Lost bits of remembered before,
Floating freely and lost evermore.
Slowly spin in deepest space.
Vanish away, leave no trace.

Finite is just another bad excuse,
Like having a war to break the truce.
Entropy swirls in an endless loop.
Like a giant, stupid, cosmic soup.

Duly noted, and neatly written down.
Now, please leave, smile or frown.
Delicate girl in a ruby spin
Lives lived on stuff in a tin.

Why not just spot a handsome deer,
And forget, for now, how to steer,
Take the knock with the bumper bar,
And say it was in the blind spot of the car?