They all talk about that historic plane
That flew through the eye of the hurricane;
The brave pilot who faced that massive twister
Air and debris spinning like the Inception top
On the brink of sanity;
Gone right on past?
It’s hard to tell at The Edge like that.
Either way, I have to say —
I ain’t no eye of the hurricane.
I am, instead, the air and debris –
The stuff that makes up that Wild Thing.
(Perhaps too occupied with”winning?”)
The ego fights so I go on spinning…
Round and round and round I go…
So close to the center
(So very far though!)
And I long to be the historic plane;
The brave pilot who pierced the peaceful center;
For I have long known the dangerous Exit
But tell me, pray, tell me:
Where do I enter?