Blood spills,

draining the life of the soul,

drop by drop.

Its soft ping echoes a warning,

one that we repeatedly ignore.

Sweat pops from spiritual pores,

releasing the juice of hope and dreams unrealized.

Are we fools operating in the dark?

Tears fall so simply,

as though not one of them mattered.

Maybe they did once,

many years ago,

when the horses on this carousel were covered in sequins

and saturated in discotheque colors.

We were naive then,

as innocent as lambs awaiting slaughter.

The lows always led us to highs,

if only for one beautiful moment,

as the horses bobbed up and down.

Now,

their colors have faded almost beyond recognition.

The horses are tinged with rust.

They can't rise quite as high as in days of old.

If you look closely enough,

you can almost see tears in their eyes, too.

But we trudge forth like soldiers anyway,

for the millionth time.

Another swing at the plate.

Another throw of the dice.

Some day the ride will end,

thankfully or not.

But,

what will we gain from it?