I recognize the signs when I see them
(the reception is far better with glass eye turned inwards).

it is the bleeding edge of the spectrum dripping down the arc
longing to collide with the lines of axis
to catch up with long-forgotten never was
as it should have been according to the gospel of
the Napalm god, who handed out
free burns the day my fire-retardant gingham power suit went ape-shit
and refused to do it's duty simply because
I chose to ignore Dry Clean Only Day.

it is Mother Concrete and her sidekick gravity tugging on me
as I explore the joy of flight from another height.
"Why can't I tie my own noose?" I ask
To which she replied, "Poor technique."
She corrected my improper form and gravity did the rest.

it is the discomfort of release from the isolation of a womb
homeless and exposed to the beasts that awaits us
I cling to the cord and keep my eyes shut
still I'm freed from the bondage that kept me alive
embrace the placenta, I swallowed her blood
hear my own cries as the brightness consumed me.
I stitched the wound shut to prevent repetition, but
What's a child to do with a broken cocoon?

it was the sandcastles on the ground that marked my own tomb
long before my shell was meant to expire
the gravedigger's offspring must have truly been bored
or in need of a plaything to hold up their fortress
this is what I get for taking bad advice
never trust the sight of a decrepit, stolen eye
what's a child to do in a damaged cocoon?
Listen to your mother and let gravity do the rest.