Blue Feathers Before God, Death’s Cradle & Blood Circles

Blue Feathers Before God

JUL 29, 2025

Blue feathers, microcosm
inside of a small planet
something I call my body
knitted by some force of nature

a catalyst that becomes the universe;
But was it not a divine creature,
who crafted us of sand and bone
what then would it be
if not magic
what is life
without magic

I can hear my atoms singing
on the eve of every dawn
every dusk
where the deer run with wind
and birds build their homes with twigs

The sonnet of the Earth
blue feathers, a microcosm
inside this fantastic planet;
are we alone here

and what happens when we tear
at the seams and rip apart skin
bone, dust, what do we become

to play life
as if we were Gods
before God

Death’s Cradle

AUG 06, 2025

foraging bliss in a loom
like a seamstress of sorts, the soul
who spun the tapestry of occulted encounters

A mad hatter like the sorting one
Engrossed with virtue, often
puzzles questioning eyes

once sacred, leafing off
clues from voynich, childlike trees asking
if unicorn blood exists only to some distant past

expelling kisses for labyrinths and birds
the kind with black feathers, voyage of
those who play tricks with the night

how do you forget about your shadow friend?
bonded tight like a rope
or maybe it was made with steel, a magic seal

something you want to forget;
the kind of torturous thing
like how crows pick on birds of prey

red-winged and succubus
like seraphim who only travel through dreams,
they are messengers

the truthful kind
often end of death, yet
don’t we all end up in death’s cradle?

Blood Circles

AUG 09, 2025

I had a dream I held
a bat between my hands
and we whispered wandering
spells to each other

We were in the passenger seat
going somewhere, I can’t remember
olden faces, hard and sour in my memory

tightropes that balance between
toned grey alleys
and the needles of metro cities.

Eleven silent beetles
trailed behind us
and you ate them, one by one.

Ferocious,
like a hunger who can’t swim
next to purity;

I drink of you to celebrate
the crucifix of a man, baptized
and the chalice: gold and silver painted irons

that held sacred blood
circles, and all are rabid now
except you:

spelled between blades
and braids of grass,
the dream that remembered everything, even

the bread of a newborn
with eyes torn;
because you catch echoes
like hunters wish to catch fairies.