1. |
Civilized Swamp
08:06
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This civilized swamp boils in murky malevolence. Pilgrims leave sincere trails of hopeless remembrance, but never has our water been so unclear.
Drenched in social malaria friendly faces fathom inspiration of tears falling to a familiar shoulder. Those same faces will soon tremble and melt.
Between forthright trunks and in plain view the malodorous beauty beckons me. Her fecund stumps for fingertips coax me deeper into my credulous conclusions.
Her palms are charcoal crosses emanating zealotry that makes the midnight taste richer than her filthy innocent lesions. She begs me to answer why her family went to christ without her.
I lie in her arms dreaming deeply so as to taste her worth.
These drugged and drawn realities of venomous consequence breed beneath my gums swimming through her cheekbone and flowing through her eyes. Flowing through her eyes.
Her mouth wide open tastes like saccharine secrets that spill and drip down to the floor infectious. Her limbs swing to my tempered tempos, but the life she bleeds will grow no fruit. The life that she loses will never grow.
Her cold crosses invert silently before she staggers backwards weakened and alone.
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2. |
Aeden Carr
08:00
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This civilized swamp, in which we dig our toes, it withers our skin and strengthens our foes. Freed locusts pour upward from the thicket where I saw her collapse. Towards the forefront sky they rise, breathe and circle towards the west.
To my waist I’d been deepened in palpable sorrows, emitted from her wails and wishes. I knew not where this town called Cross she spoke of lie, and I’d surely not heard of its men.
I am the warmth that burns safety through this fenwick. I walk upon my land ankle deep in living water.
I wade through pockets of serpents, and primitive sluggish fins. I live among an exiled leader, and his howling maddened children. Their leader, Doran Amory, had grown them out of flaws shed unto the soil.
His family stands before me in my final steps out of the marshes.
With mire behind me, Doran offers me his lukewarm hail. “Aeden these foreign colonies, they continue their weak and mournful crusade. They fear the light, and welcome caliginosity.”
I told him of concerns with locusts breeding where there shines no light.
This sweltering climate had driven the servile hosts through pyrexic neurosis. Away from ushering pyres.
When they’d heard of my most recent meal we both decide we must act quickly, for Doran knew where their temple lie, and tonight it must burn bright.
With rifles at our backs, we charge onward, toward the sounds of hymnal desolation. These intruders will, soon know the ire of our kin.
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Fire in the Cave Orlando, Florida
"Blistering riffs become sluggish spells of hypnosis constructed in movements."
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