Quiet tides lap
the shores of my broken life
like children curious
of a dying beast.
In my last temple
the dark priestess shudders and moans
and pleads to gods
who no longer care.
She shouts down curses
upon the gentle streams
and fire upon the fields
just to be noticed.
There is a sickly holiness
to it all.
It all seems so right
and feels so wrong.
But her chants can't reach me
in my deep, deep slumber.
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