Stare up to comprehend not yet fully

how far down we sink.

Do the clouds move south or does the Earth move north?

Which species can we claim to master when nature outlives and shades us all

grown deep in dying grass and buried beneath a collapsing sky.

Why does she bend to the will of so many unknowns without question and how will I know how to stop the thirst?

I quench nothing,

But invisible sleep and pretence practices its role-play on my speared vision, for it is not I who pirouettes in clumsy circles,

but the masters who tend to the bondage we suffer.