Drink its breath from the ground of its birth
and slice your sword down its monstrous girth
and leer its blood across its peoples’ eyes
blinding them, wearing a dripping disguise.

Then climb to the peaks of rock as it falls
and drop heavily down the side of its walls.
Pick away at the stone of the galactic end
and pray for the dove that Hell will send.

Eye the wings when it bursts bright;
allow yourself to marvel at the sight,
at the shining purple and pink light
that sparkles in beams across the night.
Cup its spawn in burning torched palms
and carry it and its beating heart that calms
the universe’s whims that spiral down your neck,
immortality and death with a deafening beck
that you can’t help but answer
with your own, unwavering and equally infecting cancer.

Plague yourself
and ring death’s doorbell
over and over
clutching a four-leafed clover
that is worn,
yellowed, and torn,
a cycle of voices
that divert your choices;
your free will.
Begging you to kill
those that rule and are oppressive;
infecting you, almost possessive.
Walk the path of duskless blood
while they beg you to make the stream a flood
of iron and salt,
rust and assault,
a falsehood they exalt,
and you suppose— it’s all their fault.

Blame it on them:
those you cannot understand:
Those that have hurt:
You and who you love.

Meanwhile,
the universe echoes blessings
to a crow borne of mortals
in a body infused of immortals.
And the universe whispers
its next journey:
find each other,
with these wings.