Poetry: The Majestic

on razor wings you dive through air as cold as lonely nights in fall
buffeted by echoes from the bleak ravines that heard your call
and through the twilight dimness, a golden glitter catches eyes
that like the ghost of God’s demands can never be defied

through withered squalls still spitting rain like old men telling raunchy tales
you cut through sky with talons sharp enough to pierce like broken nails
the bodies of the prostrate shrews, who merely feign their quaking kneels
and like sweet nothings whispered low, vanish at first light’s appeal

but you are raptor by the bone, and talon kings do not surrender
for epochs of the brutal age still live in dreams that you remember
so blow for blow, and blood for blood, you chase your quarry long and far
pursuing through the air like thunder on the cusp of man’s last war

and as all things born in mortal mud that fail to rise and breach the dome
of cosmic secrets and regrets where only feathered monarchs roam
your prey cannot outrun a fate derived from prehistoric times
and so, majestic as the sun, you claim your gene-begotten prize

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