Backyard Back Again

The sun rises even in the fog,
creeping up on humanity,
a spider on a string,
never knowing what the day will bring,
a fate as weak to wind as that arachnid spins,
four stories up when I drop my pen,
teetering on the edge of a back porch oblivion,
the mag-pyes cackle in their tree,
and I can't help but think their laughing at me,
so I left it there below me,
and throw down with it the idea of being free,
as bound to this electric manuscript,
as to this elusive enlightenment,
so here's my sorrow take a sip,
forget the end and enjoy the trip.