Circle is a river

Shakily, slowly, she lurches upwards, sits, and climbs to her knees. The Star Engine.

In the anarchy of our discord I discover that her sight is short but her gaze long.

I shell myself within youth but time flows from her as liquid, flooding every chink. The tide washes me clean out of sanctuary.

Ambivalence her ecstasy, passage her nectar.

Her head lifts. Her eyes drop then swell and I swirl in them. Death is her fertility, her estuary.

Husks of nebula drip from her maw, catching momentarily on parched lips.

Heaven is barren.

Crash upon me foaming tranquility purity.