There’s a masked man calling it quits
on the brink of a perfect nightmare I sit
and collect the rabid thoughts of fired lakes
and sharpened sticks        There are Wyverns here
that fly so low to the ground you can
taste the salt on their scales and their wails
remind me of home somehow        This boastful
place is a growling glint of wild and rueful
hope where rivers bleed into puddles of
vast shimmering silver        I am a hero and my
destiny lies in saving all of this to try and try
to lift it up to the rafters         A symbol of hope
There are Wyverns here and they will
chase me to the ends of the Earth.



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