THE END OF WORLDS
Darkened skies and heightened thighs, we walk in jerks and flagellation across landscapes of burnt sand and desiccated rocks. The end of a world...the end of a cosmos. The sun sits dull and brooding and our bones hang like jewellry amongst the branches of long forgotten trees. The immensity of endings is nothing but a whimper and a snarl as our splayed warlock feet shift through the ash of generations. We are the accumulation of hope, the sparkle of life, after life, after life. There is a party at world's end, there is a party at the end of worlds. So we walk across ancient landscapes, moving across a long tired and drifting ending. All monsters have faded away, all striking poses have diminished, lands for heroes has turned to salt, broken crusts of oceans unbounded. Glittering cities have sunk to their roots. Once there were jagged broken towers, now not even those remain. All of everything has turned to dust and ash. As the sun sinks into deep purple and we stride across a dead world landscape to the end of horizons, the end of worlds imagined, we hum and chant the songs of our ancestors, of bones and hearts, of trees and hands, of numbers untold and whispers of deja vu.
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