Adumbrate

 i.

 Smudging lead flakes, pressed into the paper pulp; given new life, new breath. The page  
 heaves, its edges crinkling beneath my hand. It exhales, and I can see the spark in the  
 eyes of the portrait.

 ii.

 Skin, only skin deep; the scales slicked with sweat, the sun browned at midday, and the
 people sweltering below: they wait for the wings to melt, collapsing into trash.

 iii.

 Until he scratched his nose it was dust. I'd expected that when he'd shake his head and
 blink they'd fly, but freckles they were. Stained with the cracks and fractures sustained
 from being too pale for the sun.

 iv.

 Beneath the paper are the purple roots of chrysanthemums. Press too hard, and a sticky
 ichor drips from the edges, collecting in the hollow of the collarbone.

 v.

 The scent drew them. Hungry eyes and hearts, the blood on their hands barely dried.
 If only a rose had been cultivated, the thorns a warning enough to quell such desires.