In the halls of the universals, whosoever we are -
We are not equipped. We emerge from mothers, tumbling ever forward into hordes of wane and bucolic meadows, thrashing in the kiln of Time. We soar amongst ourselves… in the pitch. In the dark.
Our totems are twigs and twine.
We hold the moon accountable, but not for madness.
She holds the key to the shadow, and we wants it.
But haven’t any angels to approve. So we haunts it.
Like songbirds with eyes of stone.
Perched on the lip of an urn.