The Gathering Storm

The leaden marrow shrouds some brighter source. Its boundaries are jaggéd and fluorescent: a god’s seaming white schizophrenic shores. Beyond: is the blue of the firmament and, perhaps, Deitas, the knowledge of— glanced in a piercing flash, (even though pent in the dark heavy flesh, under dandruff, mucus, urine, and blood, the shackled soul questions if its existence is enough to win over the maggot in its stool) . And beyond that blue: it’s blacker than bright: the stars shine according to their own due. And there at the edge: it's brighter than night for the unworldly few.