Sheepeater Cliff [m] eighty-eighth

Worship was a feeble word with a mortal given and a holy demand. Who was worship given to, when the sun went into its goodnight and rose again with a fire unlike any other? Senmut was followed with eyes, and raced by with a damned heart, convulsing. A dared song with a flame that wished to then be snuffed by the strum of the priests voice so that her chest would silence. Make it silence! A spinning head with each circle, each lap and pace of body. Make it silence!

Chest, descending to the ground, and a cold breeze touching lengthy ears. If she was not supposed to bow, then why did Senmut command it so loudly in the ways he brought her heart to a rise? So violently?

Only a god.

A suffocated blaze by smooth water in the dawn, her waist was touched with warmth by red wrists. Embraced, sacred. Her throat was tight.

Only a god.

He casted her in a golden light no Ra had ever given.

Only a god.

Her voice searched in a vulnerability.

"Who do I pray to?"

Only a god.