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Skywater
So this world has come to an end
it was seen in those black eyes
of obsidian.
A pulse on the vein of the earth,
skywater above no longer
the celestial pure.
Tears of pitch rain down
upon the twisted landscape,
it staggers in slow movements
of tar-bit waters.
Eyes rolled up to the heavens
on fire, seen in crimson
red clouds and the air
of brimstone.
But no gods can duly
be credited for this,
it is the sludge we have
been working toward.
Rough hewn hands carved
out this path, laving behind
their calloused trail.
But there are those
that have always known,
felt within their broken
souls.
A truth that must be
spirit-known, where the
rocks turn in the shade
and bake with the sun.
Only to spark the first
and final blaze, to cry
out to the rains that have
long gave their final bleeding,
this is the reaping.
11:33 AM - 12/16/2007 -
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