Oh, handbasket.
When held by me,
you become heavy.
My head is so full of distractions.
The only way to walk around
is with it in a basket.
A low-budget casket.
Upright towards the sky.
Rolling left to right,
the nausea is not so sly.
Wherever you're carried
the weight increases.
Seeping into every fold:
all its creases.
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