NIGHT OWLS

Ghosts of feathers travel early, soaked in dawn light, 
remnants of rain. 
They swallowed neon, escaped the tides, destroyed 
dreams of vast obsidian; 
swapping starless skies with mirrors and musk, 
their chests full of spiders, 
unable to move, unwilling to wake. 
This robust machine cuts across the citadels, 
each one licked by placid shades of caramel –
and the day ignites.
Their tongues sing tales of smaller hours, 
ballads of scorched earth, melodies for evasions, 
the barbarians were coming for their gold. 
They taste the honey in the knuckles, 
now as victors they go home. 
Shields scratched by thorns and vine, 
dented armours left behind, 
stubble-bruised lips now yearning for a balm. 
To dull the aches, blinding thumps, 
battering rams danced their waltzes, bleeding 
through lime, juniper and salt. 
At last, blades were blunt,
mouths ran dry. Their train is now ready to depart.