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Have you ever wondered where black sand beaches come from?
"The Vision is before me,
neither sitting nor standing,
but occupying, as if merging Her state with the world.
A seer She is,
as all are,
wrapped gently, in æther and in emera,
like a shawl trailing, the laws of the world.
A small smile,
with lips that could rend the stars from the sky,
and a face to rival their beauty.
Horror.
Before Her a premonition,
a guise to elucidate all,
swimming in light,
too harsh to see,
too enchanting to look away from.
My eyes, reddening-
drowning in viscera,
putrefying like vermillion mess,
and still yet it is there.
I have become as She has,
in the searing truth of this dream,
a seer, though my eyes perceive nothing.
“What do you wish to know?”, She asks,
I swallow, and there is a feeling of something stretched-
something of bowstring tightness and glasslike frailty.
My breath, halting and harried,
nonetheless propels my inquiry.
“Tell me, Vision,
how shall the world end?”
Her smile widens,
and teeth, multiplying like fractals,
refracting like crystals,
glint with a predatory light.
A tear opens,
and the answer,
drowning in directionless buzzing,
is defiantly audible.
“A deep question,
like inky fathoms,
and just as cold.
The answer will surely bring you no joy.”
“I know,” I reply.
“But know I must.”
Though I have no understanding of it,
Her smile dazzles me again,
as if I have shaped light into wit.
Another sound,
like water wearing down metal,
and an answer.
“You are not yet ready for the answer,
but perhaps there are other things
which you wish to know? “
I nod,
and Her presence embraces the light,
swimming and jumping,
writhing and stretching,
as if to encompass the world.
“Then ask.”
“What is the fate of living things?”
A frown,
that buffets my essence-
like razor-sharp claws,
jury and judgement and execution,
wrapped up singularly.
The slip prompts nothing beyond,
and the maw opens again,
perhaps with less excitement,
but continuing, a keening sound.
“Nonexistence,
blacker than the void,
yearning like a lover for lost things.
The end of all thought,
sapiogenocide,
that makes of all flesh useful artifice.
Narrative,
yourself as production,
incorporation,
laws written in your crude blood.”
The answer that reveals nothing-
and everything, all at once,
forces me away from the meeting-place,
and I awaken,
my eyes
(falsity,
identity,
sweet things)
crusted shut by sleep,
drip Her calamitous oil."
