Modern Assembly Line for Artworks

Our memories are but a film
on which a million faces rest.
and they turn around forever,
shot with feathers in their chest.

Thus we seek to grow some roots,
to have shelter from our race,
lest we'll be tossed away like leaves,
like dead astronauts in space.

Because we are but insects,
moths befriending flies,
While the cockroaches in heaven,
unfurl our weak seminal ties.

So I will maneuver these scissors,
to remove this head, without a scar,
I must escape this cage, you see,
yet I cannot bend a bar.

And when I will escape
i will forget the days that lurked,
and my existence will be a painting,
of a modern assembly line for artwork.