And I'm stripped of all my skin,
reading diaries pointless and thin.
Blessed with burning coat tails
at the bottom of the ocean.
Do you believe your breathing?
Ballistics air born out of the pen.
A dialogue of launch pads
glaring at the sun.
You wake up slow, anesthetized and choked.
The eyes watching that black and white reel.
Folded obstinate among vanadium steel.
Entrenched in bunkers
while you zoomed into the shot.
Framed imbalance as you're
face down at the door.
Mission control is wide open.
Error in the circuitry,
but you didn't get it wrong.
Origins unknown.
Three beams of light.
You don't know
why it's stacked like
your reason.
Signaling beacon
in distant flight.
Tear it apart
and watch it fall.