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Fjord

A capricious fjord is rarely enough to
discourage the north-bound granite slate, which
streaks its sharp shoulder along the wastrel pebbles
of Strewn Beach.

The sullen mica eyes burn unblinking
into its yawning foe.

A twisting slate is not confounded by
a panting grip, even in the northside of the scale.
A twisting slate leaves its torsion-curved path corroding
through the trapeze mines with a non-ceasing flow of
solar gush. It takes its trail to a lateral dip,
with a mocking blink at the blackness below; and
midway through the pinpoint of dazzled shroud, the
twisting flow accelerates, past the vain growth of
the anti-being, to reach the northside shore at a
higher point.

It leaves the fjord to crave behind.