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…this gnarled old man, burdened, his reality a life unseen. The fire sweeps through the valley. He sweats; the axe twists in his hands. The wind is furnace hot and flying embers burn hard on his neck. Again into the red gum his axe bites. Woodchips fly far and fast, he does not stop, there is no time.  At his age he has little time no matter the undertaking. The tree falls in the forest but he does not hear. Again and again they fall, fire fuel to firewall. Blood filled blisters boil and burst. Spot fires on eyebrows. In desperation he digs. No longer to fight. Sanctuary or grave.   Only the mourning will tell…

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Posted 10/03/2015 by DarKarsean in Uncategorized

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