birds crash headfirst into puddles
and it's pouring broken wings,
like Pangea,
or Odin's breath near you,
this humanity is tearing at the seams
the citadel swings with a Norsedrunklyrical in a paganbiblical
arsenalofpersonalities in talkshows and fleamarkets
delicious with delirium, rolling out the tips
of your eyes and into your soups, your poems, your prayers
anyone else, and the crucifiction would've been called due to rain
and as it hammers at a plane you can hear the pilot say
"cause it's no fun for us if you're clausterphobic on the cross
we want to smell the martyr on your breath"
intoxicated under the influence of wishful thinking
it's like you all stare at the sun but you're forgetful of blinking
are you lost? it's your loss
you can cross the back alleys of hell to find your cross
the lepers will check your feather at the door
there's culture clash strewn about the floor
the past is a pretense, the future's a shroud
you'll never be a being if you don't be here now