Your urges are curbed by practices of old,
Your flesh is pink – a cover for the atmosphere inside your heart.
Oh, oh, your flynet no longer works.

Into the surprise I fly like a wide-eyed scream,
I float and I hover and I crash into the woods,
Into the practices of old.

The errors of my fathers fall on me like a pile of wet leaves.
I hop and I creep,
Forward I creep.

Poetry Hammer, September, 2009