I am spangled in the sacred skin
of wandered sky, the whisperthin
wishes of distant stars. I have
swallowed moon; mooched her
borrowed glow. See my wings?
These fallen, fragile things are
once again learning how to be.
I’ve lungs enough for all this
clouded blue, and gills enough
for ocean’s salty kiss. My scales
(some heavy, some light as air)
are graffiti’d in song and sigh
-lence. Come. Scribble close;
I’ll tell you all I know.
there’s a prompt a day to be had over at poetic asides, all month long. get thee to a pen.