three syllables: WOR-RY-ING

a triangle, sharp at every change of direction.

W = 2 V’s, pointed at the bottoms,
open at the tops, lots of things can fall in, tipping
the whole contraption  O O O   WO  woe unto me,
the machine of rr’s whirring away chopping me up,
now they’re RR’s two soldiers marching, marching to
their deaths, which is only to be expected in a WOR/
WAR, its endless sounds of battles, death screams death
rattles, body bags and funerals. Let’s rest
by the Y the tall brother a stately tree, or
the y a little sister graceful surely her leaves
will hide me will muffle out the whirrs the RRs and rrs
but she’s just another v with a tail, besides
she’s shrieking the ee just starting for the ING, on
and on. Stop! Make it stop! But INGs don’t stop. I’ve learned
this lesson. They go on, going, going, going killing me
and killing me somehow only me although I wake up still
alive waiting to be killed again.