STORIES (or) POETRY: Immortality (Ongoing)

The farther that he fell from God the greater grew the need to tell a world he knew that didn’t know that he’d once woven wreaths from grapevine, pressed the fruit into a wine.  No one cared, he knew, of a little blue horse crocheted by loving hands to sleep beside him in the cradle. It would likely end as dust beside the broken wheels of bicycles and houses torn apart by another man’s machinery and ground beneath the teeth of giants eating earth.

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