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Monday, November 17, 2014

Bag of Bones

Deep under the earth, the clock knows no bounds. Rotting in chains, awaiting the devil's hounds. Sweltering in the soil so close. The one to call, flaming and gross. Spells abound, mumbled and cursed. Spat from scaly lips, tightly pursed. Should the ground split, part open or ply. Hell will give birth, demons will fly. She cannot be set free from earth or stone. For she will come calling, she lives for your bones.

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