Way below in this pit I squat,
Bound to be that which I cannot.
The floor is flat, the wall is smooth,
The light is dim, it tends to sooth.
Peering up I peevishly smirk,
Wondering how to leave this lurk.
Now on the edge, who owns these grounds?
My eyes panic to scan for hounds.
My person hushed aware of hounds.
The chase in on, but where’s my bound?
Benumbed my legs by weighted boots,
And frequent trips, my wails are mute.
Bridges arches ascend and shrink.
Grass blades loom becoming distinct.
Appeasment pranks within my chest.
At wrick or mame I smuggly jest.
What fashion of demise is mine,
To fall, dwindle, or tooth entwine?