Are We

Questionable weights, under
Brandish molten microcosms
Flung at the phantasmal;
Lucid, seemingly graspable,
Constructed from obsidian
Blades plagued by patterns;
Mottled lichen growths;
Contrasting cortexes against
Shaded terrains of flame
Shapes in curvatures, whir,
Witnessed by nuances in our
Materialization into this domain,
Slip, frozen, slit,
Made invisible, into
That dimension; alternate.


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