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The Old Gods Wander

Your promised lands
with reticence.
Grey, forced benevolence.
They shrug their crumpled robes,
extend in veinous hand
black cornucopia.
You're fighting back, it's evident,
bony protrusions, a thumping chest,
the clamming up of sweaty pearls.
They aim at your Olympian head.
There, in the meadows of your mind,
grazing on dewy hurt,
they defecate a premonition
of impending doom.