The World of Myth Magazine

Xodiles, coiffed by white feathery fading sun,
step as weightless as the floating island itself,
its drifting roots flapping like flying snakes.

Nothing changes: levitating swamps, grasses perfumed by
the breeze from distant battles, skeletons overgrown with
purple zungar vines, buzzing insects cannibalizing each other.

A hungry fog-gator nudges its cloud forward,
yellow scales poking through the mist,
its passage here marked by stifled squeals elsewhere.

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