The Alive

Veridiction shines in the Old Sol morning of the first reality. Such's where avian dinosaurs whistle without a care for the intuition of human interpretation. Oaken Boles and sable petals. Children play in the verdant park across the street from the new hospital. A raven explodes in the sky.

All the revenants are gone. Skeletons of skeletons. David Leonard's gone. Rust stain fingers. Who's in the black box?

Judith and Michael have their naked sanctuary. Bare foot paths and food trucks. Fizzy pop can loin sweat sculpture sex. Poppies speak of malediction in the blood. Tasty treats.

The underground city of The Factory pierces and imbibes within an olden bar of Ian Curtis Nietzschean moustaches and Coal vodka eulogy. Ghosts finally fall in love. Third eye watches like a bullet hole. The portal closes forever.

And Terra? Terra wears her red dress and white polka dot blue bike ride to find a fashion of herself. Her malachite gravity witnesses the burnt out dawn from the underground iron of a collapsing dusk. Slams retribution into his broken face.

Muerte. Such fuckery. Oh, buddy.