Somewhere inside, you know
the ground
you meander around on
is practically vertical—
but you
don't really.
Really, you think
you're on top of things,
you think
you can hide, you can run;
you think you're stuck
or sinking.
But none of these
circumstances
makes a lick of sense from
the superior perspective—
where,
no matter what you do,
no matter where you go
or how you live,
you're an infinitesimally
tiny protozoan
faced with the prospect
of certain grim death—and yet
there you are clinging
to your crucible's face
and lashing your flagellum
with the strength
of a billion
neutron stars exploding
and to the amusing—
perhaps maybe even
a little inspiring,
but highly illogical—
thought
of surviving.