Nothing is Free in This Land

The sky outside
shrieks a luminous blue-
I feel well oiled
and steady,
yet this poem
seems composed of
nervously twitching toothpicks
and rusty springs-
as I hold my breath,
overthinking its fate
in well-oiled and steady
stupidity,
it crumbles before
my eyes,
a miniature Burning Man, 
and the sky outside
shrieks laughter
now.