Sawtooth Spire how do you title a swarm of thoughts

it's poetry i promise xD

Breathing as quiet as leaves in spring breeze, the boy stilled. He could feel the breath of something over him. A bear, perhaps? Had his mother sent a palanquin mayhaps, of the constellations themselves to carry him to the otherworldly palaces of the sky? Appropriate, he knew they'd have time to change their minds. The soft swathes of grass tickling his form, Astraeus heaved and pushes his fore body upwards, his back legs still glass. The ill tang of his last ventures still sat near him, flies collecting near. Conversing with their perturbing mouths, revolting. Where was there Lady Mad? The queen that rode her fly-flown chariot over the wart-riddled noses of men. Bestowing dreams an nightmares wherever she pleased. And Astraeus and wolves alike were not spared nor exempt of this treatment. Devilish, minuscule, just like her steeds. Removing himself from their congregation Mahler's form became clear.

It wasn't his mother's. He remember that much. The curves and chasms of her. Her hot, turbulent winds that were her loving breath when she slept. The heavy swathe of her tongue o'er his crest. He had wore her saliva like a crown that day, recognized. It wasn't dripping or wild, controlled and wrapping. His body was ice, and she was curling tongue of a flame. Warm and loved, fed. He didn't hat Mahler, far from it seemed. But it was never going to be the same, the seasons were always changing and so did his thoughts on society. Maybe he should forget the queen — Agana — as well. Phlegm gathered in his throat, he stumbled away from Mahler. Hid didn't want to face the stone gargoyle anymore. He didn't want to face the ground, or the the two demon-spawn that awaited him in the spire-dragon's keep.

The man would most likely stop him, prod his ribs to reassure his hearing of his chicken-sized heart. Chicken-boned, chicken-skinned. Who would be the butcher to undo his entrails, and rid him of this agony? And where would he, or she, do it? Any sooner? Could they hopefully come any sooner, he'd wished. His teeth were clacking like the tik tik clap of Phaedra's nails and his own skipping pebbles and trumping smooth stone. The crackling, peeling skin on his chicken-feet. His eyes — the world seemed feint and blurred . . . 

He collapses.

Damn gravity,

Was it just love?