My blistered feet
turn bloody.
So I take to the air,
and I am everywhere,
I am starlight.
I am moonlight
over burning fields and bodies.
I stay close to the ground, slipping miles
from the arches and arc-lights,
into the warm night.
Winged children,
will fly over the mountain wall,
to the lid of the sky,
and slice its belly full wide
with their warm knives.
Not the pin-pricks of starlight,
but to bathe in the bright blood
of the world.
Of the world above.
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