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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.

Sands

I feel the wind. I feel the spray. We are all like grains of sand, crushing together in panic as waves beyond our feeble comprehension fall upon us. We call them gods. We call them spirits. We call them peace and war, pain and pleasure, love and hate. My feet are bare; countless people stick to my soles, wet with the oceans of fears and hopes. There are rocks. Rocks of governments and churches and cults and armies. I watch as they are worn down, broken and buried and forgotten as the sea rages on. Has it ever ended? Does it continue onward into the haze of that horizon? Was it ever an empty basin, waiting for these human waters to flood forth? Who can know? We, as rocks, become the insignificant sands. We, as sands, wash away.