It perches upon the highest peak
seeking out the gripping winds.
The crust upon its back splits and crumbles
from the susurrations beneath.
The discomfort makes it whine and twist
A pressure unbearable along its spine
Until at last it all bursts forth
in a slime cast towards heaven.
Wet wings lift and spread and exult
glorious in their putrescent majesty
drying quickly upon the night air
they stiffen, ready, eager for flight.
The creature, weak but joyous
crows at the moon, crows at the stars
and spreads its filamentary wings
clear like the thinnest glass.
Famished, it watches the sky
as more descend
a beetle's hum of wings
a growling of the air, furious
until one of its kind descends to crouch
and offer it food - fresh young meat.
Still hot. Still bleeding.
The creature eats and feels complete
Its amber eyes looking down
to the lands below
Where it will hunt with its fae brothers
flying through the shadows
hunting
chittering
and laughing without end.
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