Trying to fill in the holes with meaningless things
Flapping to regain control of what will not hold
And on the 8th day god said, “Sure, why not?”
And you plunge on, not to rise, but settle in
To a bleat you will never fully bloom
And your plumage will be one for the history books
They never write or never hear of you again
The earth needn’t do anything for us to die by its hand
