Plucking Angels

Your name is written up in the sky,
in big and bold dripping red letters.
Written with the feathers of angels,
dipped in your blood for all the betters.

An angel falls every moment,
quill plucking itself to death.
They pluck until they no longer fly,
or until they run out of breath.

You die a little with every stroke,
the well will soon run dry.
If it doesn’t, for each of your breaths
there are a thousand angels waiting to try.


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