The Spiral

I am travelling.
I am travelling.
Circling the sides of a furious funnel,
Ever downward, with underlying thrum.
A cyclone in reverse,
but slowly, slowly.
As in the fixed grooves
of a rotating record.
I grow faint from the force centrifugal.
Vision is grayness.
I hear the cacophony
of a hired choir,
singing sweet sighs
and promising rest.
But, why do they fade
after so much I’ve paid?
And what is to come
from this sonorous thrum?

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