The words come out all mixed up and flawed
As if I am some bird
Singing its song over and over again
Stuck in a place, form-fitted
as a wobbly log of cranberry sauce
flumping out awkwardly onto a plate to go uneaten
we have become pinned in place, entrenched
unable to move forward or retreat
as a stone being dissolved in waves
everything’s fine
the sheets are clean, everyone’s being nice
yet, in my soul there is a burning hellscape that wants to
cleanse them in fire
like a bird tearing into carrion
smeared in the feted blood of opportunity
its time to be about
it
and it hangs in my soul like a torn banner
like a power that I cannot escape
that extinguishes my heart if I cannot perfect it
as if we are amalgamations
against the grain of time
made immortal by some greater truth
in a kind of honesty
there is a primal rawness to the tendrils of reality
circling overhead as streaked predatory feathers against the sky
the impetuous of research and reconnaissance
Awakening the gears of some great machine
As one must rise to meet their fate, every single day.
