The Reaping


It squealed, it squirmed, slowly withering, to the surface of the undying world. It reached, hands gracing the veneer, pulling steadily in the thoughts. Dying but never ceasing, leashing the darkness only to be free. The aching followed in. It observed as they took cover in bounds with in, their tiny little shimmers, twirling, tangling heads, never truly reaching a conclusion. Never truly in agreement.

It spiraled up their necks, antagonizing its own descend. Held tightly in its notion of deepening the sorrow end. Lively, yet gloomy, tremor to tiny tremor, they tumbled, rolling over only to be dismayed. It had conquered, it had feared, power was only reckoning, reconciling within the bowels.


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