Forests run veins over the parched sandy skin
Mingled with threads of grey that can only be seen as dividers:
the order that portrays a super natural perfection onto the vast grid, stretching out below;
Brown, green, brown grey, green, and then: a sudden clutter of shining cubes
Where the veins meet
Where the flows clot
And in this divine domain where I now find myself placed,
With shining with keys of a futuristic feel.
I hear chanting voices projected into my mind
Through this dark tubing,
As the jealous zealot angels would cry. For here I sit,
Above the parched soul of neutral coloring
In a white shroud with shining silver sparkling off myself as I look out to see;
The Billows.
They seem as breath suspended in time, as whipped cream shot from a can into the fantasy conditions of the orbiting satellites.
Perfection, oblivion, sanctuary…
The Great Bird Flies.