the angels come too late, feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes'. the smell of ozone lingers in their skin, and gloryglory glory sounds like a punchline. they promise altars and arks; the hollow earth, the ascending light. you will be gold, and gold again. you are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow.
chrysopoetics
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VOLUME ONE TALE OF THE TWO HEIRS GAME OF THRONES . . . season one - two
