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The cryo biding me thaws

Wrought from a slender glass womb

Like a cleaver from stone

Squandered samsaras

Crunch like leaves

As I emerge from the frayed

Molt of the last

Onwards to anti-victory

Pursuants of the great nothing

The deluge snaps into place

Blood to nourish the roots of hilts

Finding practicality in nuclear fall-out

Turmoil pressed into oil

Poured into ruinous acts

The conduit snaps into alignment