i could break free from the wood of a coffin if i need. but nothin's hard as getting free from places i've already been. i've been waist deep in the burning meadows of my mind. in the engine. in cold december. shooting fire from the hose. now. turn off your lights cause i'm not coming home til i'm delivered for the first time. i was first born to a parade that follows in rows. down a narrow cold black river. faceless shadows. moving slow. i would move swift when the sounds of a trumpet would blow. i've been the puppet. i've been the strings. i know the vacant face it brings. now the bells of curfew. they may ring before i'm through. but soon. i'll be delivered for the first time.