There’s curls like a snake/ there’s paint on black sand. Who has the change? To blow the sails for future plans. One side than the next and the other. Pinging about like a pinball machine. Top scorer: the watcher. A little crimson man. With a stone cold face.  A distant traveller/ from here to there. But the message is clear. Where the cold is white/ and the dark is dying. Archways and pathways. Temptations filled with blue. To arrows that lie aimlessly falling. As if shot from a bow floating in-between the space of meanwhile and forever. Hitting the ground in shards. Splintering pieces of wood roll into the gutters. Swept up by the sewer that gives them one singular track/ that plays and plays and plays and plays. Until eventually ending in the endless. There is a bottom/ and a top/ with a space in there for the rest. Except it is not there. Nor there. The question where is not even possible. It just keeps going and going and goings/ until a tail is seen. The same one at the start. And looking back/ an answer is discovered. There is no second as there is no first. Complete. A ring around. Replay. The little man stands/ pinpricking ends to an elastic band. Covering up the middle with a star-filled slab. To live his favourite pastime. The one he can do. Control. Well in sad truth. That cannot do. This simple change/ placed a strain on something that now/ is no long the same. As the man realises/ when he removes the restraints. Watching it all folding back in-