You whispered to me
In words honeyed with blackstrap molasses
Strewn throughout with jagged shards of amethyst
That punctured my eardrums
That slashed my eyes shut

That this is all there is
That the world is a question
And you are the answer

That all the digging through the filth and grit
The endless sediment of history
Leads down to naught but your black oil
That truth and beauty, love and loss
Hatred, wisdom, poetry and faith
Are all but passing flickers
On the iridescent film that limns its vile Dark

That it is you to whom
All roads must surely lead
Because you are the Author of Roads
You are the Maker of Choices
Freedom's shameless Giver

Born a pauper
I know how begging feels
How tenderness and grace
Yield ceaslessly to need
But if you thought we came all this way
Clawing ourselves out of primordial sludge
To beg for the scraps off your table
We're going to break that table
Shatter every dish
And feast upon you
Among the ruins

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Chronos, in the year 971 AF.