The sword in the stone.

For unsaturable blood yet to spill;
Contrastlessly a part of it —
Sand reminds me rock doesn’t die —
Ancestral goals never cease;
It’s an excuse for your earnest love.
A mountain of crystals of earnest love.
Flattened by gusts of unthinkable truth.
Shaped by the hands of time,
until they’ve withered away to earth,
and still the rocks remain. —
Awaiting a knife handed down by death.


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