Necoc Yaotl

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They circle,

snarling, Growling, bristling.

We charge with Cheerful Display.

and yet the Slightest wind

will slowly undo

the framework Of all that Is,

Churning It,

into Irony, chaos.


Bends around Them and time

is bitter.

the Sun burns blue-black in hard Morning,

but Our flimsy paper Halls are left standing

for reasons Not Known.

They are incinerated and Tossed to the Wind.

Our ashes are lost,

Their story Forgotten.

And earth observed,

Very Amused.

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Infinite Improbability Drive

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