The Turn

You are hostile turnstile,
You are danger in a bottle,
asking me to wait a while,
misshapen and warped like corkskew,
You, you are deadpan silence in a prison of my own making,
You.

I can never seem to shake you,
the tear in my seams, the shake in my step,
The hiccup, the mix-up,
The riddle, the joke.
I misspoke.
You are the tide turning on forgotten waves,
and I,
I am only sailing.