God's Will Brings Little Comfort

I felt you there, my sweet, and listened to your heart. A hurried beat as if you meant to speed things up, arrive in style, and sooner than the clan suspects. I loved you long before you could have known. That little bundle, still adrift inside the stoic solitude of what is known as the Inferior Horn of Gravida, warm waters of the Amniotic Sea. And then, that day that all my Gods ought to accept eternal shame for letting it proceed, so cold of heart, the day arrived, unbidden in its punctuality, attired in the crimson rags of wanton piracy. Unblinking eye protected under burlap patch of Stoertebeker's men, and you just stood and stared, as hairy hands reached for your very heart, their raucous laughter swept their trophy into the cabin on the bridge, perched well above the hostile waters of a lost humanity. They could not take the love from you, it is what you have left until the sun's next rise, when like a tiny fragile flower in its bed by Mother Earth the wonders of a new and hopeful dream unfold within the petals of the Amniotic Sea.