Iridescent viscosity.
My feet are sticky and suctioned to the last maple leaf on our tree.
My wings are beating and railing against the howl and press.
Must not be carried away.
My looms of silk are torn and wind stretches slivers around my edges.
My feet are sticky and suctioned to the last maple leaf on our tree.
My wings are beating and railing against the howl and press.
Must not be carried away.
My looms of silk are torn and wind stretches slivers around my edges.
Flapping frenetically.
I’ve brushed my wings too many times into passing, eager, greasy fingers.
The black veins that course and travel across my brilliant orange,
Pulsing, straining, and growing large.
I’ve brushed my wings too many times into passing, eager, greasy fingers.
The black veins that course and travel across my brilliant orange,
Pulsing, straining, and growing large.
And all at once I am tired,
I resign with one last heave and a cloud of vermilion,
Then I tuck my warm, insignificant body away into the folds of my great arms.
I whirl and tunnel, a whisper on the air that once belonged to summer.
I am the last of the season.
And it’s better this way.
I resign with one last heave and a cloud of vermilion,
Then I tuck my warm, insignificant body away into the folds of my great arms.
I whirl and tunnel, a whisper on the air that once belonged to summer.
I am the last of the season.
And it’s better this way.
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