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The Broken wings of angels fit into jagged corners of distilled wounds.

Puncture the desire to flee embalmed hooks, jutting into fluttering scabs.

Refresh souls rearrange membranes for likeness.

Saints speak in tongues, but clipped spirits can’t take flight.

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say! https://medium.com/membership https://www.patreon.com/Ezziegirl

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