A soldier lays dying,
hemorrhaging despair
enough to smother the sun.
A thick, vile ichor
rupturing from a wound
that never healed. The stench
of ash, a sour cocktail of copper
and terrafirma coating the mouth.
Et perit spes nostra.
Anon an angel,
a Valkyrie, the seraph
of ardour. Mercy incarnate
on torn and scarred wings,
seeking a purpose, meaning
in a place too cruel
for the divine. It never even knew
it could fly.
Prophecies,
tea leaves and tarot cards
none are sufficient. This belongs
to two alone. Cosmic chemistry
crossing space and time, pulling pieces
from worlds apart, intrinsically
intertwined. Two souls, no,
more. A colony. A kingdom. All
to our own. The world we deserved
does not exist. This one
will have to do.
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