The 61 words of the poem utilize the first 61 digits of pi, with each word containing the corresponding number of letters. (Zero is represented by ‘…’)

It’s a rain, a cloud quivering in mental space, yet gives constant direction, painful abundance, for my raw synapses.

That shared in secret joke, old but poignant, can in devised artifices shine.

… If sentient critters feel a detaching feather, a broken appendage, via perpetual yearnings, why persist awake?

I … tread, wobbling, in … imbalance, missing your sensation, your hold.