I seen the vulture
(not the light),
passing over me,
blotting out the sun,
as I lay broken
in the ancient pit,
whose digin' I was assistin'.

I yelled,
please don't eat me, slow,

something's
already swallowed
my softsoul, intwined with flesh,
and brought me forth
into the black belly of the whale,

so consuming and breathing.
Overpowered,
I touch the walls,
heavy and beating.

Inside,
there's no light
and when I first looked at myself,
all I saw was black.

So, I figured,
it didn't matter,
when I realized,
to escape,
I'd have to sear off the fat.

With nail and teeth,
I killed the worst of me,
like a cancerous disease;
sacrifices were made,
to avoid a great rotting.

But, the worst was most of me-
my lungs and flesh,
my hearts and conviction.
God,
there aint much left,

I am pretty much dead.
I guess that's what lead
to this scavenger
perching on my head.

Avoiding more
dreary descriptions
and getting to whatever heart
this old story has:
the simple truth is
there's a hole in the world
and I fell in.

It's the price that's paid
for questioning our place.

But,
being seventeen,
I'm a bundlea laughs
and a pilea meat

and I'm trying to remember
how to breath,
as to
keep the lifesuckers
off my teat.

And,
well...
if the world implodes,
I wont give up on finding a ladder,
if my body breaks ,
ill only scream in my sleep,
and one day,
I'll wake up surprised
to see that I'm unfollowed by flesheaters

and free on the surface
of my singular, diluted design,
where I can see
whatever peace or people
pass over me.