A Dying Blood Moon

O! The desolate wind steals breath, coiling like All Father's beard curls
Ghastly fingers of barren chill seize bared skin, devouring the warmth of life

Indomitably, a feather graces the air
Wafting in spirals with each frigid gust
An angel molts its visage, with immaculate plumage

Suspicious as superstition becomes
Choosing to believe more than one may ever see
Essences purge from their husks, wrenching free
Imperfect although flawless in design, exactly as intended,
Divinely inspired

Wherein spies the eye, a foulness, celestial filchers, declaring the heavens
There nigh lies the grey palour of angels, demised

Beg pray tell which indignance, which benevolence, may demonize?

For infalleable is the word, and the word be naught.

So it is written, now and forever.
A truthful lie and believers, sewing nets for another.