peregrine

Lois Linkens

lois e. linkens

peregrine eggs

Wingèd machine, grey as winter dawn, does
Edge over old royal bones. Both tired,
Hallowed – still as morning. See – one stirs,
Eager black pearl eyes awake with joy
Attend the morrow’s young; as do sleepy
Red ones. Four shapes were ne’er so brimming with
Death and life – bloody streaks of sweet struggle,
Yearnful presses at life’s door like beggars
On the midnight street. It is dark in here,
Under this skin of yours. But they want out –
Come, small creature, into the cold where we
Are lost on you, as pale summer roses,
Like apple blossom, pink and trembling – down
Like white confetti, white as innocence.

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Author: Sudden Denouement

A Global Literary Collective

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