Song of the Blessed

Skin trophy draped over chandeliers champagne corks popping below gyrating doves chanting like crow. Though wounded it slithers alive gathering hate for a big fang surprise venom trumps feathers with a roll of the die. Sated by sun and wrecking ball fate at the bottom of the nest it quietly lay donning a necklace of blue shattered egg. Surround the coil with a halo of respect most victories drown in shallows of brevity silent rattle is truly the song of the blessed.