The sheep hide from the shadow above the hill.

The one that runs with the storm;

They quiver from something you never know is there,

Veiny blood in the eyes of newborn.

I tiptoe on dark clouds,

Dare them to grow soft

Finding a thrill in my own mortality

I become what I'm not. 

Feathered wings beseeched by talon,

Our existence is in insanity

A dimensional line we know is fine

Unless we're pulled to its brink.