2091

The man raised his head to the skies, looking for the noise

The third sound of the day, the thirteenth of the week

Looking back down he turned,

Watching,

Waiting,

Hoping.

Another man approached, elegant,

Composed

The former turned to the later, hopeful

He brought a proposition, that man did.

One of hope, one of plenty.

But the former new the truth that lay behind his eyes. The carefully guarded guise,

The lies and crafted disguise.

He was an imposter.

One of those who spoke devilishly and craftily,

But spoke nothing of truth

So he rose the harbinger in his hand, the item of defense from his side

For this was a world where a word was no longer defense, but attack

And he brought it upon the latter.

One,

Twice,

Three times

And when the latter lay dead,

The man returned to watching the skies

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