Tripping on Gravity

Eyes barely thriving in the morning,
The gut twists, stomach is a gaping hole.
Hellish, describing the feeling of Brain’s vessel;
To stand and stretch,
Loss of all with but no grief.

Forehead’s skin furrows against the cranium.
The body is a wobbly kitten,
A spinning tire swing,
A vacant world with increasing gravity.

Counting minutes isn’t but futile,
Our thirty seconds to ‘trip the light fantastic’,
And it becomes seemingly long and aggressive.
It’s not.