A thousand years of lightning struck the silt,
To forge a mirror from the burning sand;
Where monuments of jagged light are built,
Across a silent and a scorched land.
The traveler sees a ghost within the pane,
A version of himself that never lied;
Reflecting every loss and every gain,
And every dream that in the furnace died.
The wind is sharp as any duelist’s blade,
It carves the dunes into a sharp-edged sea;
Where every shadow is a deeper shade,
Of what a man was once supposed to be.
The sun descends upon the brittle floor,
To lock the world behind a crystal door.
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