Saints breathe whiteblue light
It is calm and chaos at once
Gentle wake-ups press against the inner ear and speak:
"It is morning, there are bombs."
Older toys rest in chests, their dust, a blanket
Easy steps to the top
Not so much pain/discomfort
Gunmetal angels fall and let fire loose on the soil, shaking the specks and particulates free of their flat and round and obtuse resting places
Come to the isle, despite your wasp fears
Speak to the locals and learn to lie
Grow your wings and shake free the millions little worlds, ascending in whiteblue light
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