Approximately Lost Position

There wasn’t any devil, and in its place, or the place
left over when burnt maps dream of thunder,
there were several wings, each comprised of
carefully detailed feathers which had never
been introduced to concepts of any kind or
royal abstinence. The wings had the look of
tender thieves or absent hostages. They had
the look of bloody hope and secret longing.
I was some markers in the analysis. I was the
remains of the metric, but those wings looked
like wonder caught fire and flew down from the sky.