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A broken phalanx A broken phalanx stands admitting moonlight through narrow portals. The once proud skyline where Twin Towers toppled. Death treads here, grim, resolute, seeking souls adrift in consecrated ground, earth made holy by blood, rubble rendered sacred with tears. Graves marked by ragged, twisting steel. And he, scooping up souls like blown roses, flings hundreds upon hundreds into the night sky, seeding the Milky Way with stars, celestial markers, illuminating a spiral staircase to heaven. And Death, grown gluttonous, watches mighty minions gather, and prepares to stalk again, borne on the wings of eagles, merciless, methodical, winged killers spitting fearful vengeance. He waits. Angels weep. |
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