Like a seraph serpent slithering out for a morning hunt

he folds his wings and imagines there

a memory of brotherhood lost. Bandage

him with promises of violence

and bloodied hands wringing necks. Reason

that he’s the one in the lead.

 

His feathers drip heavy on clouds like lead

pooling vengeance, on the hunt

for remembrance in the form of reason

but what cause could he have there

in the clouds never tainted with violence

and never healed with a weak bandage.

 

They heal with a war. A final bandage

for the havoc caused under his lead

he fed off it, drank up the violence

like wine. Flapping feathers hunt

for his sulfur signature, their

need for validation outweighing reason.

 

He laughs as they scramble, scraping at reason

and ripping off bindings that bandage

old wounds. He meets them there

at the top of the clouds, weeping lead.

They send their guard dogs out to hunt

but he relishes in their violence.

 

They are disgusted as he embraces violence

and attack without hearing out his reason

so that he’s the latest victim of their hunt

left to rot with no pride to bandage

the wounds left by family. He lead

his own battle, internally, not there.

 

He sobs into his fallen plume. They’re

silent as he drifts down away from the violence.

They were his brothers. Weighted down with wings of lead

he falls. He raises his eyes once, “for what reason?”

Why? Chewing on heart-strings cloaked in bandages,

they watch him go. He swears another hunt.

 

Next time he plans to hunt and deliver his violence

Up there, to the clouds, where his brothers show no reason,

to rip his bandages and drop hatred on them like lead.