Disfiguring the Goddess
the mothers hand sixteen
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Before the light heads down the last fire submersed into the ground. Sentinels are sleeping. We escape into lands below, where all is blind and the old man never grows. Sound work in vision creating color and mist. Hounds crawl up from the sand, eyeless and rotten. Pets to guide him. Growing masses of insects spew from the pores of sanity. The sunset light goes down. The last fire submersed into the ground. Sentinels are sleeping. Rest easy, eternally.