Meadows, acres of meadows and gravitational fields.

Crushed to death with hundreds of my own shields,

Unarmed, stark naked like a slug, buried on a rock,

I escaped myself eventually, turned the key in the lock.

In the darkest hour, just before the dawn, like that Robin

Redbreast who picked the blood dyed thorn, I have to choose

a way to be reborn. My pulse is playing fast and loose

with me; the quiet engine in my veins still throbbing.

I eat live send, no longer search for footing.  

Much like a pigeon – a piece of clay for shooting,    

I gorge on earth, sniff mud; I fly on fumes    

and let the winged form my breath assumes

take off your jaded palate that tells but deadly lies.

Snatch your own body, then anatomize!