Fleeting Fatal

The hive longs for honey.
Even the quietest garden
Dreams of light in the dark,
Remembers fires betiding.
Underground rivers tremble
Like stars overhead in the
Untrammeled night, at one
With the dark velvet sky.
A perfect embrace aching
And falling from flight,
Fatal and fearless before
Dissolution and sleep.
So the sting and quickening
Breath, panic and ruin,
Time swollen and broken
Like bones made of sugar
And blood rich as red wine.

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