The Fall

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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