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She is a great and terrible moon, lurking in the ink of orbit.
Her stones are black and gray and purple and blue.
The colors of that midnight sky.
We only know her by the cavernous maw that gapes in the halo of stars.
She is the black maiden of the constellations, the dark and dreaded bride of that far-flung sun.
No pale light comes from this ebony orb.
No light of philosophers or dreamers, no light of faith or praise.
There is only that great void.
That Charybdis in the heavens, beckoning us forth.
Luring us to the ethereal.
And the damned.