Gimbal Lock (Degrees of Freedom)

It isn’t unpredicted, more unplanned.
This failure-state inheres in poor design
a limitation in my arm, my hand
my robot heart. This space, now undefined
degenerates, dimensions folding in
collapsing down to null infinitudes;
the target sweeps through zenith, and I spin
rotating through the same old attitudes.
My wrist is bound by singularities:
a universe of moves that I might make
but which is right? No way to tell. Degrees
of freedom: roll, or pitch, or yaw to break
the gimbal-lock paralysis of fear?
Now thoughtless thinking turns me to nadir.

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