Of what do I behold in this supernal orb of bright antiquity,

Full in the womb with wishes.

What penance do I owe these dark clouds that shift between us,

Dropping their spatters of chilled rain like,

The bony touch of willful indifference.

Randomness, behold, randomness,

Behold this essence called mother.

The tears in this severity are called long suffering.

This presence is called wrought and,

What dwells among us of,

What we ask in prayers spoken to the darkness, in that,

When we feel that touch,

We will know that grace and, our souls will,

Tremble in the wake of its power.



