and spat it out

and for many years it crawled

before it learned to stand

where it said “I will make you now a fresh bowl,

from my family’s blood”

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what angels they?

they that always seem

to be looking

the other way

while in absentia

those robed in blight

and grey

of beak pick the bones of

our grief

genuflecting  promises

on the never-never

of a day

after tomorrow that none

will ever see

what angels they?

they that can no longer

play

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