Second coming

Standard

Pungent seeming,
gift of gleaming
shards of glass resting
in your paper lungs.
You came by satellite
to spread a gospel by fire.
Choirs of wire children
brayed as one.
I came by thunder
to unseat you,
put my hands on you,
and displace you.
Your wings of lace
disintegrated
at my touch. Your song
died on my lips.

-r. miller

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