A jig should not always be considered a happy act

The lie was not always the problem.
The problem lurked unseen
and came out for feeding
once the dark widened the distance.
You can see me doing a jig in the distance.

The fan whips around the smoke,
funneling me with funky fumes.
It is not a net of terror.
I have kept most things intact.
I keep on with my solemn jig.

Filling up my spaces with the tartar
of total loss of gravity. Lucky
to have dropped my skeleton's key.
I thrive on the mystery.
I do a jig and multiply.

The flavor of reminiscence
goes sweet and sour incessantly,
switching off between tides of breath.
I spit it out. And master
the jig of becoming my master.