The Lottery of Death

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The bells are ringing.

Deep, calm chimes of bringing.

Its like hell,

in its most premium form.

The fluttering cabins,

shaky suits and their cased servants.

the screams of the young-lings

screeching past vents of icy fire bringing.

Icarus’ dreams waxed down,

melted to salts and hazes.

We ascend with dreams of new places,

but land down in the ashes,

the graves of graces.

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