Valhalla. (Prose)

It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree. There is a glistening laughter. There is a bruised memory that is cold upon the surface and flushed as a silent cry from the ill weeps of the crowd. A soldier on a horse is a statue, gated by the keenly lights that shine like they are in France, and the reverberations of people walk into soliloquys, as the eschewed rain commits on Valhalla lights on rounded buildings, telephone poles, and streetlights, people in London coats. I stood beside the pale season. I am beside the marveled rivulets through the dead autumn, and sunset licks above the atmosphere into a waltz among the coursing dark silk that tremored in the sky, like thunder, and the clouds darken, the bronze red lamplights reach into the eyes, into the soulless crisp blurs of wounded people, damaged people, but they look all the same.

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