Minor Tale From Fringes Of Dream Poem by B. Sven Telander

At the peak of a mountain of bone ringed by clouds of shimmering ether, a headless angel stretched four wings of silver, purple, and golden feathers, then dove into a blinding white sky.
Watching from an ebony precipice, one or many miles south on a neighboring mountain of obsidian and jade, the phoenix and the manticore kept there respective gazes locked on the wayward godling until it had cleared a far horizon ablaze with the conglomerated husk of an untold number of astral corpses.
“Off again, it is, ” the phoenix sang, “on that perpetual quest.”
The manticore laughed a laugh like razors on scabbed flesh.
“Fool thing, it will never find what it seeks.”
“It will always search.”
“Yes. Yes. Always. Never. Always. Never.”
The two strange beasts batted the angel’s head between them, demanding answers to secrets they did not know.