All straights contorted
Bombs stripped away the paint to the boards
You’ll all recall ignoring calls to address the border hordes
Effaced like writing on a wind-facing grave
Most of the skin cladding her face
Her Claddagh ring melted, its gold made a minor lake
The white bones like the fate knowing tokens of a mage, rearranged
By the awful smelting heat of that demon-stirred blaze.
Alchemisland 
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