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Each untested pillar shadows conclusion,
the mystery of once;
prisons of form, anatomy, and proportion,
surge beneath a hood of ash.

The indifference of beaten wings
fades coldly like prayer manifested
within the varicose mantle.

Because there is a difference
between rust and blood,
crescents of fractured alabaster
revolve around a feathery dream:
chiseled moment, finger-touch edges;
the patience of planets
that will not die, or slowly die,

watching with the heavy hands of angels.

      — James Flick