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.


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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