By: Sasheera Gounden

Upon the carousel
To meet friends, family
But most of all,
You

Pinks, blues and that of the colour bile
Of static combed clouds dispersed in filthy rotunda traps
Clay men hold moons
Of catfish,
Coney and sausage

Upon a repugnant steed
With a fixed drawn grin, fictitious as ever
He does not blink
Nor wink
but rather wishes for me to meet my end