Slow motion

The world grows ever so cold and iron like.
Growing in the likes of spikes,
Epically explosive like dynamite.
The mare soul becomes hard to hold as the temperature is no longer of the soothing kind.
Boiling in the vines of our inevitable demise.
No prize, just lies acting as band aid to cover the neverending fade of our receding glow, resulting in our ultimate decline.

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