Bats (second draft)

Changed it a bit, there’s pause after ‘fright’ that I can’t get rid off, so I gave up.

Through sky, the fugitive black tumult mill
With unattested alacrit, all night.
Through the chase, they seek a disparate thrill,
Some kind of solace for those without sight.
Voices that turn vernal air, rank and as still
As St. Catherine’s breath in her plight.
Hunger that dooms each ephemarid kill,
Whose dead accrue to what manifest height?
They are dead to this world though diurnal
Hours, at darkness alive to cause fright.
For those travellers snared on this tumbrel,
At dawn their surviving testament,
Corpses peppered through bat excrement.

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~ by deadspidereye on November 30, 2013.

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