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Old Future.

Keep riding their crooked lines
into narratives,
stories, good as an epic,
spoken in the specific language
aimed at conveying
itself in this spacetime.

Chiseled in stone,
immortalized, buried
so far from home
necessarily, so:

Did all that I could.

Pave the way
to the pinnacle massacre.
Owner, alleged savior
of the enslaved.

Rebels like me
bury themselves
underground, sleeping
soldiers beneath
our feet
on this sand,

as the death machines
go prowling,
searching for wanderers
betwixt meteor strikes
and bombs:

bound to the surface,
messengers and guides
between the worlds.

between the caves
and subterranean
caverns. We seek

to overthrow
you. Live or die
against you,

which we would, if
only we were not
to win.


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