Satan’s Scalp

One minute, soaring so high
So high even the sky was jealous

Two minutes, saying things on the top of my scalp
Not bad, but annoying

Times have changed, zones
Prone to become something I can only tolerate intoxicated and under the knife

And all I had wanted minutes prior, were my wings to be clipped and my feathers to drop
A shell if you will, to leave behind

And all I felt was the loudness of my bludgeoned body parts, lightened inside the drowned space

Confided, but not claustrophobic
Tense, but not shaken

Demons calm, so intensely, immensely calm

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