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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

'The Angels, They're Gone Now.'

Stepping out into the snowstorm, 
icicles stroking sin,
this is just the beginning.

Blueprints created with blood spatter,
bullets ricocheting like a raucous puppy in a new home.

Cold solidifying organs through desiccated veins,
body recycles petrified air.

Footprints
paving
the
escape
of
the
deceased. 

'The angels, they're gone now.'

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