A red wing opens, metal-lit, rising in cold blue.
Broken horn arcs up, a question honed black.
Lightning, held against cobalt-inked skin,
erases names—splitting the mask down the middle.
Below: an equine skull—ice-sheened, hollow—
stares through the color—into that stained-glass fire.
Two kingdoms argue here: the red of alarm,
the blue hush after screams.
The edges blur; the world can’t bear
to focus on what’s kneeling in the storm—
a saint of static, unblessed,
learning its wing—the fracture hymn in chrome.
A red-winged saint in the weather—
not flying, more like breaking through.
Feathers alight within, furnace-pink,
a heartlamp bleeding in the fog.
Then this: a silent siren-shape, half beast,
half omen, dragging chill across the air,
thunder in reverse, caught mid-violence.
A forest, bright as a freshly opened lung—
and then that: a stamp of panic
pressed into waking.
The sun keeps pretending nothing’s wrong,
leaf after leaf applauds the breeze—the scream
is already here—thought, hung between trunks.
Not a ghost—a painted billboard
in the green, saying: NOT YET.