Why is it always that the most innocuous things make the world squirm on its axis, turn and twist, stumble and stutter to an ignominious halt? Why do giants trip and tumble over grains of sand, burnt and melting into broken reflections to their painted masks?
They laugh, looking on - looking back, sightless eyes tinted green, hollowed cheeks and covetous mouths stretched sickeningly into shadowy remains of a mock smile. The light within - hallowed spirit - dim, carved empty of any heart. Blessings, like silver coins in the empty fountain, fall fast in noisy rumble, leaving no marks in stone.
Tell me, craven puppets of the silent abyss, of borrowed emotions and shallow beliefs, what do you see?
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