At the single wound of a black heart lie pearls, the calcified sweat of venture, just waiting for an excuse to bind you to the wheel. The wound is seeping bile; the air is attracting flies, whilst the gain in a vulture's eye rides the currents up above, waiting for the human creature to leave.
"They're precious, you see." His blue lips quiver as he speaks. "Gilt edged and encased, they'd make the perfect gift." Though while we breath in air that speaks of shattered worlds, as brief as our evolving greed, and all our longings, a tyrant sees the words before they're formed or we've exhaled them, because they're stirred in troubled dreams and he's the one who's turned them 'round, and had them face away.
Upon the stained land nothing stirs. Something golden flutters in the distant air, but it is just a mirage. The patch of darkness beneath it is not a shadow, but a pool that feeds upon itself 'til it is dry, and quickly fades away.
I am Homo Serpens. There are notches in my bones from when I spar with life.
The White Osushi drums a wheat-filled thousand dreams. He neither drinks nor eats the rumours. They are framed in black light.
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