honeyclimber

Sweet gold, oozing from so high above. It clots in his eyes (the world is the sunset, amber stained trees, golden hued rock every crack and fasset glistening with the sheen: Gold and Crimson), drizzles into his mouth (divinely sweet, mingling with the iron bitterness of his lifeblood). He does not breathe now, they do that for him, their sursurations and enraged humming penetrating his ears in waves. And down drips the godfood from that great rend he left above.

He does not breath.

They take him up, following that viscous thread, up and up, and paste his soul in. Masticate, swallow, regurgitate, repair. Slowly: decomposing below, growing above. The breath of their wings giving rise, anew, to conciousness. And it does not see the bones below through the neon glow of orchids.