The world is an infinite thimble
and on it I spin,
on the will of some force
They tell me exists.

Endlessly,
(bound by
the will of the weight of others)
all I know skims
existence’s spiked and naked floor.

The twirling
turns sky so vivid;
They tell me:
“look how lucky,
you must wonder and know
of help that comes from higher;
see it writhing
past the clouds
glistening with blood and gray guts.”
But, I'm sick of gravity,
wouldn’t you know?
It brings only omens
of the peeling
back to black and blue.

And a long time ago,
on this little thimble,
nature made its rules.
They sanctify the rotting
I smell in the fields
of the bacteria and scavengers
makin their meals.

And a long time ago,
in the place that’s my home,
someone tossed up some wood
and cut a few holes,
so I could lean staring
at the pure white
of a fawn’s cracked skull
lying on top of the carrion
of millions gone before.

But, this one was different.
I heard it
in the heat of the day,
howling its deathscream,
until a coyote
ripped its lungs away.
They say it’s necessary,
is it unnatural
if I still think it cruel?

Ever since,
I just lay,
as gravity slips me away,
out of my orbit
(like a sun or green star)
to crash in a burst
of meaningless spores
or to spin freely
into untamed depths of empty
where gravity’s reign
controls me no more.