clothed in ashcloth and lead-wire wings, almost-white feathers
named morning star and mourned fallen by silver tongues; he is nothing, and
he sometimes reviles in his shame.

Lead-wire wings, harsh and smooth and reflecting nothing
a veritable angel, all crossed-silver and blessed
his sword the red-copper (smoothness) the clouds take, before the advent of sunrise.

named artificer by the artificial, hands full of blood-shine, ground pearls and the cheapness of mica
flaking from his palms, the metal-smell. tattoos, engraved
in his skin with a pencil, filled with ink and dried, left to dry.

the reviling of guilt, the astonishment of shame. The air filled by the sound
of slow wings- the speaking so much, the yet speaking of so little, metaphors to fill the silence:
the punishment, the only left the surface variations, the waves of an almost-maddeningly calm sea.

eternally beneath the (from) speech-struck sky, yellow-acid and benzene;-
for attempting to reverse the dead of the sky and likewise ocean, the monotony
the horrifying possibility of normality, inferiority, the crime of wanting and attempting, of ambition.

the clinging smell of ocean-salt, the taste of sunlight burning through the sweetness
of regurgitated decay. the grey of tarnished wire, and the inevitable recoil to that symbol of failure.
The evaporation of what can ascend, the salt-sting left behind: the afterpain, the afterimage
of beauty, and the wages of sin.