PW: Sept. 21 (On the Confined)

In open air they writhe, six cold stones surrounding. Meandering wind avoids their skin, scared of dropping ill. They, dropping into sealed grey. Drops of water underground. Dropped upon tongues; closed mouths.

Without, quiet. Within, murderous silence- devouring silence, ravenous silence. Take them, silence. Take me, silence.

Seeking sin, searching six seas, the seventh untouched for they are unwilling. Unsee them, undo them. Never unearth, never unbind them. Caged in open air, writhing in open air, underground in open air. Leave.

Tremors rumble above, collapsing the sky inwards. From heavenly chasms, wholly hollow creatures fall heavily. Crash. Fractured fingernails find purchase between too-tough too-weak slab. Calming fear chains bodies to rock.

Their minds hide in the interlude between panic and oblivion, the ever-dark obscuring grey matter.

Not enough.

Black sunlight streams through cracks in their stony solitary, the midnight brightness blinding them. They’re binding them. Time’s biding them. It begins.

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