flying.
the god soaring the short sea between his world and this.
and his tentacles of power, his tendrils of light, his lassos of binding--
and the blue-white light of his power: lapping now, shooting now, screaming, hissing, calling, a blare of trumpets that breaks all drumbeats, blazing white, whiter than white--
and the immeasurable weight of his mass pulling all things, all pasts, all futures, into himself--
his size in contraposition to the depth of his pull on space/time. a tiny marble sunk deep into the black velvet on which our sun and stars roll obediently, lightly, dumbly.
all stay on their courses only by his will. if he did not stay his hand, the oceans would fly out of their salty banks and caress his golden beauty, his supple hardness; surround him with their mighty waves, reduced to ripples in his puissant grasp.
and of men, it cannot be spoken. * * * *
flying.
