Sharpen your knife, and clean your ground zero,
For time’s getting short, and you are yet to be a hero,
Insert it so soft, into the buttery soil,
This is the only way, the only way, do not toil,
Around the catalyst, carefully make the incision, 
Do not fear the blood, the blood shows you are living,
Let it run wild, like a river without eyes, 
As it drips to its new home, a new ward where no one cries,
When at last your knife has gone ’round and full circle,
Cup your old baby, a beautiful deep red, so red, almost purple,
Let the sun wash over, the breeze pat your love dry,
The wings already twitching, let your enigma fall to fly,
Searching, blind, it moves with no grace,
It’s a simple process made complex by time and space,
To land is to fade, to die without a host, 
Maybe that’s an alternative, to live out life as a ghost,
But a ghost does not live; it’s lost its jaded days,
Clinging to the living, vicarious in its ways,
Not this time, not this dream, not this boy full of piss, vinegar and steam,
It beats faster and faster,
Its home felt close and real,
A chance in the distance, oh god, at last, I can feel, 
Pumping unchained melodies of blood, sweat and chaste,
The rhythm gets maniacal; its senses get a taste,
It lands in a cavernous cage; new roots begin to grow,
It found its true resting place, new memories to sow,
It just feels right, stitches labor feverishly,
But before the last seed of day light seeps in,
It looks up, so sad,
So sad,
So sad, it sees me.
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