Pieces set apart,
In a crater wet.
Distanced by more holes,
And more crying for space and matter.
Space is contempt with burden,
While matter horns with acceptances,
Unforgivably they talk to each other,
In the funneled stream of natural law.
Separate from the pieces eyes,
Amongst craters creepily neighboring,
Pieces of peasants may lay too;
Sunken into their own space and matter.
Across the sparkled pond of decay,
Through junk and slippery whispers,
On the surface where no craters grow,
Pieces remain apart in the name of natural law.
