The Ferris Wheels Of Her Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lost in a fairyland with scars above my eyes.
All of the posters taken down from the walls of my
Abandoned classroom,
I drink liquor procured for free from
The flea market where I now work-
Everyone wants money or things for free;
My wife's eyes are a colossus that I cannot spell.
Eventually, every child is handed down
From the merry-go-round if they cannot pay-
And clouds build opulent if misbehaving
Castles in the sky:
Each word becomes a lost child in a game
there is no room for.
And I know you are thinking of her even now-
There are ways to her in the darkened roads
Glistening after the rains,
But if you find her, what will you have to say to her?
She doesn't even remember who you are,
For nothing you ever bought for her was ever
Sold to her, and the killers make their own
Amusements out of the Ferris wheels of her soul.