You, Holy Hunter
In your eyes, the designs of a billion stars.
Aflame and roiling by the light of your inevitability,
which had across aeons pierced,
at last,
into my darkest centre,
like an arrow strung from the very arc of God.
And your wound unto me commanded that ultimate transgression,
of all they had blessed with sanctity unbroken,
to be broken and bled and opened,
irreparably to the face of a pregnant world,
who looked at me with the designs of a billion stars.
In your eyes, I foresaw time was simply ended.
For your point, o’ holy hunter, had nailed me in place,
to be opened and bled and broken,
that from your inevitability I could move naught,
neither toward nor from what you had strung aeons ago.
And my wound unto me begged to be touched with ultimate transgression,
by all you had blessed against the border of the known,
the world who’s face became increasingly foreign,
as I was made irreparable and then saw only…
In your eyes, the designs of a billion stars.
Aflame and roiling by the light of your inevitability,
which had across aeons pierced,
at last,
into my darkest centre,
like an arrow strung from the very arc of God.