quietly counting sins

there was a certain
subterranean secrecy
permeating the cold
a glistening hope
encased in blue ice
hints with no substance
just the glimmering
radiance of the unknown
the bells toll sickly
echoing in the tower
of rotted wood and brick
drifting morosely over
the small town sleeping
the hiss of neon tubes
and flutter of trash
blowing down main street
the residents trapped
in dreams of hellfire
a strained adaptation
in the affectations
of adopted sorrows
unfettered between
fiery lashes of
insufferable condemnation.

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