Saturday 11 August 2018

The Fall




Bone-thin, molten-skinned, hackle-hunched and shackled
All gnawing after truth, and a place to rest,
They search the skies.
Eyes, cleft, yellow-red, and rolling inward
As white -wings descend from heaven and hide reality
in a snowstorm of purity and light against the dark.

Talons, marked by angel’s blood, scatter feathers
And eager tongues, split by lies, taste misted-memories
rising in forked wisps
from the ancient  quagmire of unborn hopes and dreams
spawned by daemons after the fall.

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