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Pinned down bedsheets, jail tight
Crawled in forward like a slug
No room to turn
Feels like a furnace in here
From the far side of the moon
And plumes shoot up red and blue
On either side
Wide of their mark but getting
Closer, as the crimson tide
Seeks like a helicopter below to
Engulf him in raging whirls
He wonders about the ceiling fan
When he was a stout boy, he sees
So many things shredded
Led me directly to this hole
In the earth, mossy and grave
Where Indians they say
Would never venture very far
And there are pinpricks of light
Searing in his eyes
Shooting up on either side
Of him like stars
Peeling from his skin, now he
Becomes a different thing
In his mind he's found an escape
A way of moving forward but his
Shell is wedged so tight
That he's dried out long before
He grows his wings.