The hand falls to the eight.

Dusk breaks over land,
swooping a calm compassion into purgatory.
In the emptiness of its inhabitant,
a fallen angel emerges;
pushing toward a light,
pulling apart its own heart.
And it looks on as if waiting,
but the inhabitant refuses to move.
He waits until all his blood is bled
and smiles.

The hand rises to the nine.

Dawn breaks over tide,
sweeping a fiery resonance across the horizon.
The ocean boils,
first enduring the relentless anger of its overseer,
but the vaporization eventually causes calamity.
Its armies begin rising;
soldiers known to reach the skies instantly,
known to conquer shores without casualty
launch in ripples.
But as the greatest of its warriors reach the front lines,
the overseer evaporates the surge,
and there is nothing.

And the hand cycles to the eight.

A man sits between two chambers:
One dim sided dystopia,
One bright sided bliss,
both unfamiliar to his reflection,
both battered and crimson dried.
His hands clench and unclench
with the tempo of the waves.
His body moves between its two phases:
fragilely refreshed,
firmly beaten.

His teeth grit.
The sun scorches the moon,
bringing the blue bodies back to their uprising.
The hand burns to the nine,
but blackens upon the eight,
As the fallen angel saunters in,
holding the doors to day,
only to have the heart grow sick
and scream for its paradise.

The hand jolts unto the nine.
The vacuous echoes anger the sun,
and the armies march upon fallacious lucidity,
but as they crash, they are wounded.
The weakness calls the angel,
the hand submits to the eight.

Arrows pierce the sky,
And the nine is at the head.
But a battered heart fails,
And the eight reigns supreme,
But for a half second short
for the nine has ignored the laws of time,
a half for the final push;
and the blood bathes the land,
and then all is silent.

There is a tick,
a broken tock,
and a half second in the right direction.

The hand hits zero,
its 12 landmarks now conquered

There is nothing.
And then footsteps.
A broken bird chirps his third.
It glances at an empty chair
with its one remaining eye,
its plucked feathers,
its broken wing.
It smiles and walks off the shredded board.
“Yesterday took three years, but today is a decade,” it whispers.

The End

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