You and All My Voices

In the army of angels,
Company in the moment, upon the threshold of a stretching stone.
The mesh of sound, within my fingers,
I am the mountain of fire!
With trumpets above, we give no quarter. We take no quarter.
Thine last breath shall be a sample of fire,
And then, the avalanche.
Earth may melt golden upon thy stone.
Thus the pain of cutting your wings,
Makes you flesh.
As we drift with the sea of fire,
Below the cooling night,
Wear our robes of meshy gold.

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