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Crashing

Down the middle are white birds flying against the hard, black sea.

They fly past me, almost through me, and thin sun beams follow quickly past.

The end of the sky is met with gray ashes that run down the seams keeping the whole scene together.

A rumble under my feet reminds me of the continents shaking and growling as they moved into place.

Rubber against the deep, asphalt sky rolls and pushes off the wings of the white birds.

Between the two families of birds is the single, golden chariot, guiding and misguiding.

My body dances from one side to the other of the chariot, mocking its power.

Looking ahead I see nothing, so I continue staring at the birds, the ash, the chariot.

Small cracks of green show through the sky, trying to escape the lifelessness of it all.

But if they did, those cracks would instead be magnificent holes where light shines out.

Huge pillars of stone stand like titans from the ash, shooting off the winged’s followers of light.

A similar light shines off the front of my body, but it does not flow; it is ugly and constant.

Between these instances of beauty are lapses of deep, horrid darkness.

Darkness that foretells of moaning and an end.

Finally, the backs of my eyelids take full power over my numbness, my body collapses into one of the titans, and is absorbed by the ashes at the end of a black sky; to be remembered for a short while, then forgotten.
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