Birds of a feather have clipped wings,
like a pair of bibles burning at their seams;
like roses in the thicket lay unseen,
untouched by all these awkward dreams.

And the blind man
would stamp out both our eyes,
and the wise man
would ask us not to try,
and the dead man
would warn us not to die.

The ground still reeks of Adam's bones,
and even the wisest could not know.
They'd prick their thumbs and bleed out every hole
for a chance to rise and grasp Orion's bow.

And the blind man
would claim that he could see,
and the wise man
would force his will on me,
and the dead man
would beg us not to bleed.