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
her