The second coming by Bobby Larsson

Cave opened. Crackless. A hunter and
gatherer. Down in the dark. Eagles got their
nest. The long fear, the earthworm fear,
stretched out between Berlin and Barcelona.
The spot, the mark, chin like a lake. They’ve
built a tower, long and hard. Massive brown
clay. An angel apearing. Fire in the field.
Flushed breast. No one there to. Apple
matured in the tree. Up in the air.

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