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It is the bones. It is the rattle and crack of what remains as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar, crying for flesh; feeding their young. The young remain forced into the thousand crosses of Calvary; bound as the countless virgins frozen under the hands that will raise them to whore. Our nests are thorns dipped in gold. Old temples crush the new and call it charity. Images line the walls of the grave. Miracles run black over withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds and are reborn in the mud. All eyes turn to mirrors: the images diminish. When you see the blow, you know it is not for you. Your hands are pressed together and your ears are filled with dirt. We are not crows, to sift through filth to thrive. In the end, it is not the bones but how you break them.

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