it's like sitting in a crowd alone on liquid mercury,

 

slip-floating across acres of silver moonshine going nowhere as fast as the stagnant air permits.

 

(the tiniest jittering of the sideways see-saw causes chaos- was I going up? or down?)

 

and this never-ending dead end has us running stuck

 

searing ice dashes like molasses from the heavens below me and my eyes can't adjust to the noise of so many fluttering hands, desperately awaiting the grip of the gods they convinced themselves exist

 

(all wanting to be greater than the pair of hands before them, only realizing too late that the next great pair has already replaced them)

 

the pointlessness of the ritual is essential to the hands' well being,

for without a greatness to achieve they have nothing.

 

 

(nothing)

 

 

so they flutter and flutter, promising to stop when  the lightning booms and the thunder lights up the sky, and making sure that the rest of creation understands how important their fluttering is,

 

 

(because otherwise they would have no purpose)

 

 

and the still wind rises the stagnant air even faster.