Feather

We are the eternal atomic bursts of the skeletal brush of the nightingale.
The initial mockery of an ancient scroll of the Mayans.
We are the lost souls of the mortuary.
The praying hands are gushing through the cold of night, and the dark is building our resistance.
The fluidity of our vowels, and rhymes.
They were the poison, and we were the antidote potion of a final demolition.
We were the fire that sews the persistence of time.
And they lost their breath along the way.
(Fireflies wings are still choking their minds).