they buy the marrow of weakness
on the corner of featherless angels.

then resurface their stashed rigs
within the chest of their chapel.

they blaze spooned tar and pour
liquid heaven into icy blue rivers.

then discard of their cutlery and nod
off to the banner of a greater world.

they float higher than the mist 
that ascends upon the northern hills.

then the torch that bled their creation
embarks on a path to their blackish bed.

they burn in daylight, cremated by the
golden hues of their beloved’s maker.