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Postern Door

In a split of a second his black eyes shift to the color of the sun right before it bursts, tearing into million glistening freckles. His genuine look (the one that makes him godlike, cherubic, a shy smiling boy with bright pearly tears on the blades of his soul) smashes across the floor titan oak boards, crudely cut into straight lines, hammered, nailed, flattened. Now estranged, a foreign, Meaningful Sol ascends past me, and I am but thin air; hardly containable, hardly a gust, just an old feel.

Postern Door by Omri J. Luzon

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