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By E.A. Blakley

It begins at the end.

Your eyes are open, though unseeing:

You are not awake—

Yet. The chilling wind surrounds,

Stirs a breath, a birth, a wailing

Cry against creation.

It implores you over the precipice,

And you fight the urge to jump,

To dash yourself against the drop

A thousand feet below.


This thought is not your own,

Though you know little else.

              These are not your waters.

              These are not your stars.

They are dead:

pale, and blue, and broken,

and you realize that this is

where dead things go to die.


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