The Fog Of Birth

The desert sky is filled with an angry couldron of storm clouds.
The hazy crimson sunset grows darker and thick as spilled blood.
She is the crystal blue pool, floating, as if about to be born again.
Amniotic fluid nurturing her in the coming night, death like, silent.
 The lightning cuts a vein across the black clouds, letting out the blood
of cold rain, falling down to earth, but shedding  it atones no one’s sins.
The warm water of the pool becomes cold as the frigid rain falls in.
She is shocked, awakened. The storm has come. Her wings have come.
 Naked, she rises up, walks on her own feet out of the water, no longer needed.
The rain steams on her hot skin, the mists of new spirits, the fog of birth.
Out of the pool and into the rain, the wings growing out of her skin, cutting peace.
Her eyes go black with all they see. The storm is here. Her wings have come.
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