tear down the last gods
They promise altars and arks; the hollow earth, the ascending light. You will be gold, and gold again. When their throats are torn open, they reveal to be hollow.
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April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
— T.S. Eliot
3 years ago   ·   631 notes
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