On they raged, moving
side by side, wheezing
towards the rising sun,
limping but not broken
despite the short circuit
which was slowly seizing
their limbs, goaded on by
the hazy mirage of
chemical-laden blood
from the fabled Ruthsmith,
disputed forger of all,
a distant memory
b'yond the arc of Bifrost;
the fires of heaven,
hell and everything worth
burning in between.














Comments
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"All the world's a stage,
and all the men and women merely players:
they have their exits and their entrances;
and one man in his time plays many parts..."
(William Shakespeare, As You Like It, 2/7)
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