She trails her claws along the ground, whisking grass and stones, little rocks bouncing

her speed's faster than she's thinking, but she's not thinking. Her machinery old enough to turn rust

to burning ash and clouds to sinking ships, her pace is like an avalanche pausing to breathe

You'll fall faster down that slope than her long thin nails picking you up

sinking ships being less than a metaphor for an innocent victim soaring the skies

and her eyes roll in agony as she tucks her tongue way back and roars

a deep intake of air that splits at her fangs and dives down into her stomach pits before rolling out again

pinching the heavens apart, slicing their wayward dreams with incisors deeper set than the bowls of any whale


She trails her simplified shell, thoughts raw on the knife of hours stretching into time

while her claws tuck at the ground and her wings lurch against the stars

she occupies the minds of humans, foul, ill-smelling little beings

that have never

dreamt of anything

bigger than


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