Bloodwing

Vomit of the earth
Abandoned by Death, by Worm
His burning heart stares upwards–
The dome of the gods, too far.

Animals died from his touch.
He built stairs made of corpses.
Stitched goose wings on his back—
Yet none could lift him close.

In his despair, an Ashflower grew.  
Its grey surface—  
the memory of a girl,  
veiled in a ghostly shimmer.

Do you dream of me?

He plucked her.
Killed her.
breathed—
upon the ash-corpse bloom.

Return.

From root grew a green-eyed cat.
He fed her goose bones—
breathed again—
upon life's false face.

Become.

Flame beast dance for me.
My moth and bride
I am the candle—
yet you turn away.

Be gone.

The stitchers made it once—
stitched the gray gods,
stitched the world.
Now he must stitch his own.

He slew his older self.
Took grim old bones,
stitched rotting flesh to bone,
poured his blood to its veins.
Conquered the realm of roots,
flooded his dry body—
taken from Earth's ancient wound.

Black fluid pumps his
slow,
beating,
heart.

Be one.

A gentle breath.
Ashes burn again.
Kiss of the dead.
Birth where none should be.

It grew into a horse.

Blood-red magic,
stolen from the sun
Eyes—empty depth,
sealing the wells of earth.

One wing of a swan,
one wing of a goose.
Eight feet—three ears.
Fur of a cat,
eyes of a woman.
One head.

Where hooves hit the ground,
Ashflowers rise again.
Not now—
not yet—
then.
Somewhen.

Be mine.

Flesh-eater horse,
tore the dead bird's wings.

No.

No friend—only a carrier.
Debt of birth, I pay in full.
Nothing more.

I pay the price
for an unasked birth.
You pay the price
for an unwanted revenge.

I serve you only once.

Bloodwing born.