these bindings hold me fast and tight
I remember, in this bed of blood
my friends dance around me in a jest of rage
but only I can see them.
there is screaming, my own
and that of my feathered king.
there is fear and a music like a plea
for me to run, and hard, to leave.
what shrill beggings may echo in the dark
and little joy shall they reap
instead, they are met with the same harsh reality
and from this, many memories they will keep.