The Merry Go Round Poem by David Burton Richardson

The Black bosom Blue thrusts the Sky like rampant Jets
And tries to reach that outer bound
Yet it stops far short and cannot accept
The deathly Black, that Black Death sound
And stretching time and upward bound
And life is just a Merry Go Round
Round and round and upward dither
The Air is cold but does not shiver
And who but cares or flow like River?
We are so still upon Deaths sound
As we gather upon the Merry Go Round
Time is fleeting
Like little Lambs bleeting
And Fields of joy are in their meeting
But they must leave before their sound
Becomes that Black and menacing Ground
And we all follow that shallow, hollow Mound
And gently sit upon the Merry Go Round.