Behold The Man

Whirlwind from yesteryear gusts guilt into
The gasp of many mouths, drowning in a lost past
Which only lingers as the landscape pours out of an echo, echoing
Lacerated lacerated lacerated scar tissue that was created
In the days of marching numbers, who
Had it all
In their spears
And their swords, and
In the ever crescent moon travelling at demise.

Oh, hell.

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