Dragons rising from the Abyss,
oriented backwards from where the seed sprouts.

Time in discontinuum,
metamorphosized daggers digging in;
the ancient ruins of your cerebral vortex.

It rarely ever snows in Rome,

But here,
it snows for ages.

A never-ending flurry
of prophetic voice;
and semen.

God’s sole and lonely passenger,
acting on a violent wind,
washing up disease and filth;

Wanting more than anything,
to let you in.

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