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2 four 6 eight
flaky shape
shifters
in
formation
parallel the jet fighters
in a blue-less sky

overhead their wings
in unison
never flap
just soar
angry eyes
and softly-spotted
plumes

my heart flutters
in its tortoise shell
skips to a syncopated tattoo
tip-toe highland fling
in a gilded cage

what is coming
you white-winged
harbingers?

I thought I saw
a good sign,
after all,
only a moment’s
rest

but now grounded
in a frozen trench of
worry

(even you, clawing, digging Eagle,
cannot stop it)

looking over both
shoulders
while baby devil’s
red-breath laughter
coats the fallen angel’s
down

© 2015 J. Noade

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