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the forgotten ash floats in the gray
breath of dust exhales – sighs, the music of the silent –
bones of the dead devoured
by the desperate hands grasping for fame –
the bottomless pits of hell burn up in flames.

the dark of night, unmoved countenance of drapery gray
by meaningless dots of light in the sky,
crackles into life, greedy gulps of oxygen,
appetite insatiable, ravenous for the dry pages
of the heightening columns of magenta rage.

the allure of the wavy illusions of fame,
bending and folding among the dancing flames,
draw the living to its deathly embrace –
the screams of the eaten echoing into an abyss
of voices clamoring for the hallucination of bliss.


thousands of footsteps away from the devouring chaos,
a match falls in a forest of trees, blanketed by the comforting hands
of the dead long ago wishing for revenge,
nestled between logs of hatred and anger and ambition –
a fire begins to burn unknown.

and while the unassuming fight each other,
under the cover of darkness, the stars blink out one by one –
the walking dead howl insults at each other –
a wind blows towards the forest, the embers take flight,
burning bright in the dead of night,

and the forgotten ash rises again.


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