a dream

of metals bombarding the earth and forged into holy relics, extracting themselves from the earth and forged into holy relics, coursing through our veins in the body, a holy relic

We are a princess of the trees, how romantic our dark hair draws lines like cracks in the cinema of reality, head turned downwards to the left, a shy, welcoming expression towards a dark semisolid, a ferrous suspension seeping through gaps of the train windows as it sways

Empire heart, bellows under and below our life passes together

We are a soldier of the light, how just our silver and brushed steel floral breastplate crested with the winged wheel and endless eyes of judgment wreath justice in our blade, our pace steady behind the jesters of our mad king as they terrorize the enemy across the fields with horns of spiraling blackened brass

Temple steps, white marbled wet glistening with flowing stream of rows of weeping nuns on their knees at the gateway

We are the angelic possessor of this body covered in the runes of our summoning, the first of us crash landing on this planet, the first of us bears a weapon, the second yields the storms, and the third will flash a light brighter than the sun