I am God.
I pluck ashes from the sky
and mould them into branches –
midnight affair and smoky feather.

I stitch together wings and scales.
My laugh tinkles through the air
as birds and reptiles fly together –
the creations of imagination,
and liberty
to do as I please.

I am not God,
but I tell his lies.
I am a sculptor;
I exhibit life –
but only


About abigailbaross

Writer and aspiring publisher
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