wounds for harvest.

words inspired from events transpired.
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he is stirring the cauldron of souls, unsettling the heavier bits of wayward meat that have sunk to the bottom; these rotten flesh launch their worms into the back of the fresher ones, ensnaring them, dragging them deeper into the murky depths.  weak rays of light barely visible, reflect the metallic shine of his pitchfork, as it circles like a ravenous hawk, diving repeatedly to pick his prey.

one by one they are fished out, set on a plate to be pulled apart by fork and blade.  their screams make for alternative cuisine.

these people, who thrive by stepping on and over others, by stabbing backs and ruining lives; we only hope they find Heaven, before the devil and his pitchfork finds them.