Monday, February 28, 2011

The Waters of The Moon.

I was up to my elbows in the muck. It was black as coal, made of decomposing leaves and rotten meat, and the roots of water lilies. Something softer than leaves, and cooler than the black water, brushed my arm. I twisted, and gripped, and out it came - it's back was black as the shadowy moon, it's belly as bright as the full.

It was all empty inside, water flowing from the nose and mouth. And into this emptiness I called to something, and it became full. With thorns I pinned it down on a hill, crucified, and covered from prying eyes. And then I waited for the Little Ones in the Hill to take away the flesh.

And then came secret things, and dealings here unfit.

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