High above a forest clearing

Are the heedful eyes

Of my golden protector

~

A seething arrow

Burning through the branches

In a crimson storm,

The broad wings of death

In a tormentor’s soul

~

Too often

I am turned to fleeting cinders

Lost in the haze of an apocalypse

~

Carried along

In the vise of their talons

Their eyes forever seeking

Finding few signs of life