The soul dishes out declarations of flesh and blood,
and we spin tails, breathing wrong;
circuits short until they don't, then

we hover like bird over nest,
beholding the face of God
whispering winds for
the reflection of vultures
who seek their
manifest need for meat.

The tongue whips nothing into something;
the zero ticks upwards and leaves
thousands more to bloom like wildflowers
behind the scenes.

The embodiment of love
wears the trappings of fear well.