Seaside Moors there was once a poet

a low, pealing whimper leaves his lips as erzulie appears and rushes forth. unspoken; it remains an apology, a plea for acceptance of his repentance. he does not pull away when erzulie draws him to her. he presses his muzzle into the fur of her shoulder, lapis lazuli gaze disappearing behind the clouds of his eyelids as he squeezes his eyes shut. oh, i grieved for you, boy. as she was right to ...but was her grief enough to become his salvation? this, like many other things, scarab has no answer for. on this, the gods remain traitorously silent; as they do on the reason why he can talk to a stranger but when faced with the suns of his life the wind that leaves his lungs does not bear the fruit of verbal sounds.

perhaps because, despite that evidence currently supports otherwise, he fears they will dismiss him. a stranger's judgement was so much easier to face than the judgement of those who he set so high upon the pedestal of his life.