Bed of Roses

[TheNorthCountryFair]

Clocks ticking in the dark.
Mind is running- where did it start?
Caught in her haze of red;
it goes over and over through her head.

Dancing back and forth- spinning between extremes;
Facades, unwillingly, sometimes it seems.
She twirls upon the rooftop,
swirling spirits and smiles and swings;
But sits sheepishly across the candlelight,
dodging questions, fingering silver rings.

The road traveled, inherently, is lengthy and quaky.
Through no fault of her own footing,
the turns have rendered her quite shaky.
Her faces, they flash, from golden to blue,
hypnotizing the fray as she dances on through.

It seems a lesson learned long ago;
we make our own beds by not letting go.
We can lie in them, entertain strangers and winks,
and placate ourselves to cloud what we think.
But unless we pull ourselves out, we live only in our head;
So until I awake, I lay in my thorny bed of red.