The doves are moaning again. Atonal dirges for god. And everything fades as the blood seeps from your head, turns into white angels that fly away through the holes we made. The Blue folds in. Lightning strikes the eyes of the silver flower. A shower of sparks, twisted horns, and blind eyes.
One turns red. The other upends, spills broken moons like quartz necklaces eaten by horses made of ash and plastic.
Rivers of blood.
Angels are meat.
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