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Once

upon a time

an ordinary

world-cloaked

weary man

met a god

atop a hill.

The god

cleared his throat

(as gods often do)

and,

with great pomp

and circumstance,

yanked

a bulging sack

from thin air.

The sack

was clearly

sorrow-tinted.

Its rim

was lined

with the

fairest and finest

of tears.

Inside

there was

a river of Magnificence,

of Fear and Sacrifice,

and Mindless Hate.

The man

peeked

into the bag

and watched

the river

boil its way

methodically

through every creed,

and every color,

and through every

last

remaining

consequence.

In later years

the man

admitted freely.

What he saw,

it was a god,

and a river,

atop the hill.

A river

that would

never reach

the freedom

of the ocean

or the sea.

And then.

He turned

and walked away.