Its a form of grace, I suppose. That rides the lightning and passes thunder to the tired baritone of the gods.

This grace that shadows envy for lust, that tempts the straight bends to the curve of the wayward arrow.

Its your grace that filters the light, that grates the beams from the ugly, downtrodden sunlight.

Its in dreams, a grace that multiplies darkness and gives us the shadow from every blade of grass.

Its that grace, that hides away and cuts my hand on its teeth, that begins to tremble when I rise.

I wished it was all just a dream.
- P.S.