Oil on canvas
--------
SHE DOES NOT FEED
Like some base carrion bird.
She requires artful displays of her meals.
Spirits vanish into her bones
And are found later
As shattered instruments.
Cracked masks.
Bones arranged in perfect symmetry.
When she feeds
The air smells of rosewater and copper.
Only when appeased through performance
Can she be made to fight.
When sated
Her barrages fall like symphonies:
Each strike a chord
Each lance a blinding note.
Yet she can be wounded
As now.
%20HE%20WAITS%20FOR%20US%20IN%20A%20PARADISE%20OF%20HIS%20OWN%20DREAMING%20copy.jpg?ixlib=js-3.8.0&auto=format&quality=50&dpr=2&cs=origin&s=0361f03f9a309d05c5dead5a1c58c987)
