Burnt Commands
In my soft rind
light scars me blind
to fumble lost.
Invocations
from crushed nations
spew black exhaust
at rogue titans
while they frighten
to sell all Hell
made in China.
Our angina
compels farewell
prayers from devout
voices that shout
prophetic words
written by hand
to singe doom's brand
upon Earth's herds.
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