that shuttles slow beneath, with broken hopes
when what dwells about him begins to weave its own wreathes into the leaden dusk
In the darkness is apparent a swelling of surfaces, inky rawhide. Seems appear and in my hand a gleaming blade. The hide itches for me, and I slice, where runs jet blood. Deeper, and deeper, until papery layers curl and white slashes appear. When all is cut away, there is the impression of a new door, and out of it poors a frothy mist...
Advent VI: The Mist
