Arms are pretty and still warm, but the face is dark. And so it goes everytime the sun comes above, lighting a sky that doesn’t want to be enlightened, while pouring savage flows of crows deep into the ground, on the ground, around the ground and the earth, circling in endless spirals of corpses.
They smelled the corpses and knew it was the peak of pomp and the edge of hunger. Decomposing, the corpses await for the birds; kings do too. The sun breaks itself, breaking into pieces taken on the wings of the crows, flying with them on their backs. Black backs.
It’s still warm and it’d burn their feathers, macabre paintings depicting birds set on fire, flying above the kings of men emptying their heads and hearts, asking for an anachronistic, impossible, utopic forgiveness. The sky decomposes too, some parts melt down into the oceans or others fall deep into caves, impregnating themselves in wounds of soil and dirt.
And the crows continue to fly, to rend the flesh, alive or rotten, white or pale or darkened or swollen or bruised, still moving or on a static self-imposed rendering. And the sun burns in the bass creeks called the orbits of the eyes.