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In this new mythology, grace is bound in god’s pocketbook pasture
like the unknown soldier sinking into stone. There are echoes
that have forgotten the first shout, but bounce across entropy 
in ever-diminishing consequence. And there is flesh.

It slinks across the skeleton with vile consumption, swallowing souls 
and storing them belly-ward to await the acid of time. They settle with the stones 
of cherries long since picked, made smooth by abrasive virtue. Carbon-anchored, 
it is their dream to suffocate.

Men grey to oblivion while their tongues taste black and white. 
Housed under stone, words are sentenced 
and execute themselves. 
In the cloth of theatre, the puppets are oblivious to strings 
and dance on… dance on… 

There are no curtains here, only blinds.

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