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The ashes dip and bend
'round today's tomorrow's nightmare,
terminus of a thousand
fractal odysseys, lost as they sailed
'gainst the sunset of the world.

Call them, o' Menachem,
dying as you endure yet again
upon endings of times,
for they deserve that final embrace
of all mankind's glorious cast,

Not whispers from beyond,
a final ride on the valley,
the tale that they unto everything
are but a dream within a teardrop
in the skittering vastness.

But, so it has become,
as rumor, myth of harmonies
felt in times of glory aforelost,
now desecrated by gay cataclysm
and the last screams of the world.

You are unlike them, too
swathed of old in steely currents
of mind and your cosmic weregild,
to know mortal flesh and disjoint souls
save hopes and broken visions.

Your sins and decorum
set passions to catch and roil, ere
the peace of solace, burnt to cold ash
pools, too deep to stand without weeping
for each world that never was.

In dreams 'twixt furies of
milliseconds, to know who next
you are propelled to be by these turning
engines of souls, breeding the world whole,
the greatest dream ever dreamt,

Dare scream to the open maw
gaping fore the dying of the world,
to be the damning of the angels,
you their great champion, o' Menachem,
who holds the handful of dust?

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