Vile

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.