Ex Machina Tempores
this last step,
the dead bird,
protruding veins under the skin,
now drying,
the other imperfections and these eyes,
from distance.
scaly is the word for skin, brittle.
not good, it evokes the relentless of time.
destruction...
is always what rushes down from heaven.
its color looks gray, but it's condition.
something that would be solemn in books,
the speed and fall of this kind of angels,
quite brutal in reality,
conveying a depressing sense of end.
just fur or feathers,
nothing on it flies,
the emissaries of never arrive,
the winged chariot that carries the defeated,
the last step is the bird that passed.
symptoms of our decay,
demigods that nothing can heal.
Copyright © Marco Chies | Year Posted 2022
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