The True Forms Of Youth

The winding road, immeasurable as it mines your eerie tone. Chopping away at the peering golden dawn, these majestros make a creeping pursuit of that totem. Those tree’s have no identity, you could name them all but it is useless. They decay sought after in a field cut off from the world that knew them best. They were fascinated once, finding joy in even times of great horrors. The superimposed  frameworks, these were the exquisite components needed to finish the job. That lightning from the sky, it struck down the anti furious from its throw in a grand display of their true nature.  They’d never be cast out again, for it was in that day that solice would hundreds of times over.

Contributor- Chris Ballenger



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