Injured by the sound of sleep,
the feathered maiden wailed.
Never to see the sun again,
or the moon that bleeds profusely.
Near a horrible incident report,
the dragon breathed his last.
Breath mixed with blood, ice, fear,
it congealed into a graveyard.
Two-headed serpents that never rest
demanding a place in the stars.
What could possibly profit them there?
Slithering through nebulae into
black
holes.