Feathers 

Ten hundred oil coated feathers dribble down onto Paris and La Paz.

The Parisian pests flourish in the smog  and stretch their plumage to soak in the harsh mineral. Each coal stone sinks through the fragile skin and make them sick and empty. 

The grinding caws draw out the radicals ans call out the fire to char the crowns until they turn black as the crows are.

La Paz scorns at the filthy hills below. Demons inhabit each pore, each cavern, like a crows nest. A murder.

Hundreds of silver coated and gold coated my fees piling to make mountains and no craters. 

The crows are born mature, and born equipped with their razor feathers. Tearing blue skies to let in black blood to ooze onto the surface. Billions of hatchling await with mouths open, with dusty tongues, to feed.

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