One landed high. Rapid movement to complete stillness. Black but invisible. Solid geometry broken by the orange of eyes.
You alone an army.
Bird of darkness. Scaring for centuries.
Not of this world. Or even of those we dream.
Petrol blue blackness. Something mystical.
An existence of extremities. You are oil on water.
In winter you thrive
like Daneil de Bosola in The Duchess of Malfia
doing someone else’s dirty work.
This act. Means your existence is worth more than others.
You descend with the decadence of devils and otherworldly creatures
that scream in the deepest drilled mines turning those who hear them immediately insane.
You devour a feeding table of the living and the soon to be dead.
The fire who seeks those who are weak
or just predetermined to burn
moves from bough to bough to bough collecting broken people like bracken.
And somewhere distant and not so distant smoke and souls rise
in the name of a new philosophy.