The finger joints of gods inspire
solar systems from silence, subtle vibrato
looses string-shard planets from idly-bowed
galaxies of spun gold.
There the firebird's voice is heard
among dust, shuffled about the ivory neck,
hurled through solid rock by brass esophagus,
reiterated by percussive diaphragm.
From slumber he rises, unfolds his wings
in racing bow crescendos, takes flight
with timpani wingbeats and trumpet shrieks
through universal night. Spark-feathers fall
from the sky, each a star in man's sight.
When knees hit the ground, hands strike
bass and snared drums, their muttered words
rise to heaven and call him god of sun.














Devious Comments
Comments
"hurled through solid rock by brass esophagus,
reiterated by percussive diaphragm."
i love the portrayal of instruments as organs. really beautiful, kyle.
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You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
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<caveatLECTOR>and jon beat me to uranus LOLOLOL
<concrete-surfer> your mom depreciates in value as she's traded
<intangebility> o man. pink is singing sweet dreams on tv atm, and madeline says "string trees are made of peas?"
This is why you and I are pretty damn good friends.
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<caveatLECTOR>and jon beat me to uranus LOLOLOL
<concrete-surfer> your mom depreciates in value as she's traded
<intangebility> o man. pink is singing sweet dreams on tv atm, and madeline says "string trees are made of peas?"
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how long can you expect love to outweigh ignorance?
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<caveatLECTOR>and jon beat me to uranus LOLOLOL
<concrete-surfer> your mom depreciates in value as she's traded
<intangebility> o man. pink is singing sweet dreams on tv atm, and madeline says "string trees are made of peas?"
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