The Null Valley

Grab the wings.

The wings mean flight.

Flight above this earthly plane.

The bucket must be filled with tar,

So the wings can stick right on.

Heat over coals ablaze,

We must escape this damned maze.

The bubbles pop.

This means steam.

Steaming anger from my brain.

Grab it now, right when it’s hot,

Who cares if it burns to the touch?

Let us drape it all on you,

We have no time to lose.

Searing tar,

These are brands,

Marking us as another crane.

These wings can flap 1000 times,

Go on now, your journey chimes.

The fly shall now crawl to his den,

Hoping to not try again.

Heat is good, heat is great.

For there’s no falling from the top,

Down to oh so crooked grain.