The Ceiling Fan's Soliloquy

The ceiling fan wobbles, a tedious humdrum ringmaster,
presiding over the circus of clowns we call a living room.
“Cooling you? Oh, that's what they all think,” it muses,
while contemplating the metaphysics of its spiral existence.

Each day a carbon copy of the last, revolution by revolution,
it wonders, “If I reverse, will I unlearn the secrets
of this plaster sky, or simply forget the dust on my blades?”
It dreams of being a chandelier, dripping with crystals and grace.

Does it know joy? It chuckles at the absurdity, spinning,
a dog chasing its own metallic tail, always there, 
never reaching, eternally a blur of motion — “Happy,” it scoffs.
Yet it indulges the toddler aiming spitballs at its cyclical trance.

The two bulbs affixed beneath its spindle, are they comrades?
Perhaps conspirators plotting the next blackout, or star-crossed lovers,
beaming light into each other's filament hearts, a romance unflickered.
It tries to warn them of the impending demise at the hands of the cat.

Perhaps, it whispers into the cool night, a silent oracle.
Words lost in the white noise of its own making.
“My prophecies are air,” it laments, as you sleep benighted
by its breath, never knowing it spoke at all.

And so it gyrates, herald of zephyrs and muggy stalemates,
a hypnotist's pocket watch by day, a moth's lighthouse by night.
It beholds life from above, a watchful guardian in rotation,
pondering the great unknowable — is the ceiling fan amused?