Solemn hands, led by somber mind, raise the instrument of silence, putting it to sober lips, and softly the silence reigns, but soon abates.

Poor hands lower the instrument as gentry waits.

Rich feet tread upon buoyant ground, an island out in a storm, awaiting judgment.

Forces fail to ****** the veil from feeble foes between the toes of giants tall and giants small that fall from forty-five hundred miles above, fists rattling, jaws chattering, buried in the collision.

Perhaps nails are this way when they affix me.

However, I quickly pry myself away from the cruel, cruel day. Singing lost languages, listening languidly, plying myself candidly through clear and cloudy skies, alike.

Journeys over just lands, burning in my dust-hands are strands and strands of whiskers, plucked from lions’ maws to build an antenna.
My hands shape a needle weaving itself into the sky.

Yet, the collision of derision upon my mind will affix me to my madness, and there is no escape from a box that I have been told to call humanity.