beneath the crushing boots of time 
the smoothed teeth of chattering maws 
insisting that a loud pulpit is best 
in spite of souring bedrock

it is your sun-picked bones 
my sons shall find 
like petrified feather splines : 
mere pinpricks and 
pocket sized nothings
rattling against the rocks 
in riverbeds 
the echo and wash of your misfortunes. 

and your tragedy will be writ 
with...

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