Spinning Top

I am an errant spinning top

Teetering at the edge of the table

And I see you gaze at me

Captivated by the flurry of indistinguishable colors

Anxious over how dangerously close I come to falling

Will you catch me?

No, it’s foolish to expect to be saved

Instead my base continues to pen the table

Writing invisible scribbles on the surface

That you can barely read

Coin isn’t spent on my affair

Nor is it skill or glory

I spin because I am compelled to do so

By the hard surface beneath me

I hope to make a garden

Perhaps my constant friction will till

The wooden surface beneath me

And I’ll leave it to you to plant the seed

Hopefully we will have a bountiful harvest

I sense myself at the edge

I know you are watching me so dangerously close

You tell yourself this is my chosen fate

But how I wish that I could possibly

Slow down and tend to my garden

Furrow by furrow I will be delicate

And plant many different crops and flowers

So that I may give them to you

But you have already decided my fall

I spin resigned in gravity’s wake

At least the friction has stopped

Until I hit the surface yet again