Turning

The hands of the clock keep on turning

as we proceed with merry abandon

to fulfil that which we digress.

Corner after corner we keep turning,

looking where to go in the end,

for I know not where to turn.

Slowly unravelling, breaking, turning

into that which is old and sour,

long before the expiration date.

Tell me, to whom should I be turning

when all of the pages I’ve turned

led to a wrong turn after yet another?

I reckon, as it turns out

that I’d just as gladly

be turning in

instead of turning up.

MdG 22-3-2007