The disparate moon hides behind enshrouding fog, pale beneath the celestial bloom. The subtle groan of the grieving sun disrobes allowing the stolen light to blanket the globular crown. Half wraith dancing upon clashing waves, the towering monolithic headlands pay homage, relenting in timeless exfoliation. The age of salt in motion eddying and coalescing. Breathing in fits and sputters, belting out a disposition that transcends value. Here, in the absence of dipoles, the realm befit for the assuredly wise crafts a mask of metamorphic slag. Parading as fervent void, the language beyond words articulates a world unfit for the children of the moon. Their banishment spans generations and speciation. The consciousness swallows itself, for its completion is begotten and forgotten, carved as fractions in glyphs and the minds of men. Language becomes a palisade, encapsulating our breath into flame. We pry at the gelid day, frozen beneath the unyielding sun. Beaten beneath a barrage of our own device. And the word machines ooze dire verse and love dirges befit for no life of any sort. We consume, enraptured by fantasy and tragedy. The children of moon embalmed with lament, persisting as echos and destructive interference, waves canceling waves until nothing but silence remains. Yet, this silence passes, fleeting, as the deafened ears of seven billion listless pharaohs crave the measure of their own vanity, validation, and virility.
