A clockwork of precision; a cauldron of conflict
The decaying well into which smudges of our past selves reside
Pastured acrobats grasping velvet tongues, plummeting the finite dark
No ground to break us or earth to steal our flesh
Suspended bodies crushed by time
Parchment skin falling from aged bones
Alone we enter
Collectively we soar
Clusters of souls stretching eternity
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