Not gone or with you, but here: not dead but descending in muscled loops, a language of the soul metamorphosed into gravitas and light, thrown onto the walls, the very air thundering with the storm of his scales glinting by holy light repurposed. His energy burgeons. It clouds. And all at once, it shakes the foundations of these tunnels.
january week one.
Here.
Not gone or with you, but here: not dead but descending in muscled loops, a language of the soul metamorphosed into gravitas and light, thrown onto the walls, the very air thundering with the storm of his scales glinting by holy light repurposed. His energy burgeons. It clouds. And all at once, it shakes the foundations of these tunnels.
Here, it breathes, unspoken. ]