beyond our reach on it we depend
upon the fabric we'll never resow
the drama watched with all eyes closed
and either we win and either we wail
and either we succeed or either we fail
it is always ours sent by the mail, no delay.
it is a threat to the weak some say, our fuel
given in a spoonful to fuel the strong, and the fool.
find your balance to live among the meek
to watch, helpless, the play of it's tricks we seek
and us tossing shadows by night
through the bliss of morning follows twilight.

I imitated your poem into a sonnet. if you are bothered by this, let me assure you that it was agreat exercise that ended in a poem that is far inferior to your original; however, I may offer this: consider working in (sloppily like me) the sonnet form sometimes. it provides constraints that prod the creativity. cheers