The thin crust of the world is flaking off
in old-paint curls
that stick beneath my eager fingernails
What lies beneath
What breathes still with God's heartbeat
What waits to take a breath, to ask --
is it time?
Wings wet and crumpled
still it lies
waiting for the moment
becoming --
My fingerprints are bleeding --
What shape when the world wakes
Wingbright and beautiful?
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