Plastic & Powder - Lower Dens

His head is shaved

His tongue flicks on his lips

From the purse in his hand comes

An oft-welcomed gift which

In hindsight

Had I been wise

Would not have been received so willingly

Oh, these birds never stop

They just keep flapping

A thousand putrid wings

Infinitely

What if my skin sloughs off?

What if my tongue curls up?

What will the vangaurd think of me

And my pedigree?

Will they ever climb down?