Tender Lips

Flying never takes me far.

there is enough for me here.

my intention betrays my fluttering touch.

Delicate and fleeting current.

Haunting and hypnotic dance of air.

As I travel among the soft

and the rotten.

This is for what the dead are destined.

Some skeletons breathe too,

but I am not picky.

I never take out of greed or malice or gluttony,

but from duty.

I am but a soldier among the swarm, 

with a mission to cleanse Earth of what it doesn't want

and removing evidence of fresh spirits stolen by sky.

I follow the stench of poisonous breath and burning snow.

I rest upon a frozen cheek kiss the ashen skin.

This time, I am the first to whisper goodbye.

Others will follow, but for now my tender lips will have to do.

For I- a fly- have tasted you. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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