Wings dipped in the ink of an ocean's heart
and golden dust from a setting sun.
Hollow bones drifting on currents of wind,
disappearing into billows of lethargic clouds.
The fading shoreline reaching out with its writhing fingers,
toward the infinite, obsidian sea.
A sea distending into the silhouette of a corrupted horizon.
A delicate pressure into the earth,
from the bellies of his feathers,
from deep within his sickened stomach.
His beak mutilated by a human's poor decisions,
ingeniously designed body blemished and tired by their mere existence.
Wind picks him up and pulls him into the sky,
away from the perils housed on earth.
Away from us.
A motion sure to bring him solace,
to send his misery into the sun, vanishing like ashes before shadows blanket their resting places.
Only to meet fate at the hands of our paramount, revolutionary concoction.
A stone cold sober, colossal and perfidiously lustrous version of himself.
Never trust the soldier flying into the sun,
he's not a gull.
Not like you, not like me.
He's not a gull.
YOU ARE READING
Punctuation
PoetryPunctuation means everything. Punctuation does everything. Punctuation is everything. I'm promoting punctuation. Promoting bringing commas back, promoting exclamation points, promoting questions and promoting finishing sentences when they need to...
