"It's feeding time for lunar satellites."
Smoke escapes from cracked, parted lips, and trails into the glistening sky.
"A red moon says more than you'd think."
Footsteps, blinkers, falling raindrops, the inconsistent meter of laughter. Natural polyrhythms of 2 over 3, 3 over 5, 5 over 7.
"Mythology, but fiction's more than fate."
The floor was deep, and the sky was oil. And an air of poisoned lager (but so many tiny rocks).
"Tribal glorifications set the table."
The heavens torn open, like a celestial cervix at The Rape of Nanking.
"…not the hands of the cosmos."
Oh sweet transparent blue. Ripped apart limb by limb.
"And now, the bloodshot eyes of a dying god. Coup d' Grace.
An omega point trump card. Fingers pulling apart the clay of the universe.
"But is there any point in living…"
Skies turned the shade of abyssal blue.
Cracks in the grounds, veins of frustration on the face of the planet.
The trees wither before my eyes, screaming a silent shout.