no matter what they say, I am still the king
There is the in-between; a frozen universe where you are uncertain which way to step (which way is safest). There is that dangerous caw, warning you to go no further (He is darkness, He is blight). There is that sweet siren call (He is sanctuary, He is raw). Which way points true North when the universe lets you go?
You are naked in his eyes – your fake folly, your rapid scramble to maintain a smooth surface – it is all ribbons to him. You are so easy to untie, to stretch out across those planks, your moods as clear as the summer sky. But my, my, He too can play along. Your cascade of steel (a small shot at redemption, at freeing yourself from this trap that He so delicately lays at your bare feet) – He will see it through, He will pretend as if you are not stepping so willingly into the rest of your life. He will tell you many things that you do not know, my wayward compass.
That stretch of time yawns on – the waves of your future cresting overandover your lithe silver skin. How long has it been? Has He stopped the cosmos for you to ponder? Has the quiet rushed into your ears? Time is a luscious thing, and when it stops, you can feel the prickling your skin, the steady bump of your heart to your ribs, that ebb and flow of consciousness. How long as it been, little North? Has it been long enough for you to decide? (If that is what you could call what He has given you – a decision. As though, you were waiting for one.)
You speak again – the cracks of time filling with your steady voice (a challenge? An assurance? A false security?) The air thrums with what He is about to give you – your future, your conclusion, His name.
“Eight.” An endless serpent, a mercurial thing that can escape and mold into anything, an ever reaching infinity. “And you are North – exactly the direction I was looking for.” He comes to you, his dark body a ship cresting that ever foreboding wave. He reaches, eyes downward (so close to you now that He must avert his gaze to still see your shining skin below him), dark maw reaching down to graze your forehead – what will you see what He touches you? What will you see?
(now, the storm is coming in)