going medieval
the tree in which i dwell is made of mist
dust is the stuff of which i make my nest
the side behind my tail i call the east
so that my beak is pointing to the west
thus is the whole creation turned around
if
i reverse my chassis on the sly
when hanging upside down i call the ground
what normally one would have called the sky
i set myself the task of setting free
the cardinal points and the poles of space
except that when i fail to keep my tree
within my grasp it melts without a trace
the future dwindles followed by the past
the present is the void still holding fast
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