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.
[ Birdsong erupts. It wheels, not doves turned stars escaping from stars turned hunter, but swifts on cutting wings. An ancient auspice — an omen, a glimpse of the future offered in a flock of birds. Except they disappear around corners, into darkness, slamming into hosts and collapsing into blood and paper, only echoes left in their wake.
But they are here, tirelessly. Whistling feathers always just out of sight, always just within earshot. ]
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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. ]
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But they are here, tirelessly. Whistling feathers always just out of sight, always just within earshot. ]