They fly the blood red lotus
[grown in molten mud
by her unstained fingers]
far from neon sirens
in halos of stars that
abseil the fresh cut sky.
Willingly engulfed by wild lavender,
they fall, self-sacrificed
to airborne fields never known
where shadows wander,
[weightless of iron spheres]
void by cyon air of all that was,
bathed pure in nectar.