He’s coming.
Mouth open;
Arms outstretched;
Eyes closed.
We are as we have made ourselves.
Becoming dystopian with every stride.
Survival itself is work.
Church itself is death.
Pulling scraped knuckles
And gravel pit crumbling teeth.
Bell rings;
Jump to feet;
Scramble to make some sort of sense
Out of all that is senseless.

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