Isle of the Blessed

They lie there on wide stone plinths,

Barely-there breath ghosting past

Their lips, suffocating white fog curling,

Pulling at their feet. And they are clothed

In long, bleached robes that fall past their

Ankles, stopping before pure silver sandals

But still draping over the sides of the offering

Table, swaying in an invisible wind. And their

Pale, pallid hands, delicate in the mist, are suspended

Above them, hanging weakly in the thick air.

They are the innocents, they are the Blessed.

The End

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