its mouth craves for superstitions and hungers for unseen things
like fear, love, faith, mercy, devils and angels in ministerial garbs;
those infinite exhalations of humanity, excretions of dissipation.
its shade - the color of death and other indescribable iotas. we wail upon sighting
our last rocky bed, the long fall, the wet bones down below.
the impending torment sucks our tongues and blinds concepts of morals and sins and gods
to one unglorious, breathless scream! Exhalations of lucifers and michaels!
can’t you see the world is a dry well?
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