Blood and the Lack

Time in a liquid forest, with trees underground, hollow rocks for water to flow maybe smooth glass and perfect crystals to sing with us, hit them together hit them against the temples of your head and let the enormity fill you with absolute cold, let the old He watch us and stand there, born in before this order arose, rose before the sun had set yet, seventh and thousandth second, he waited never expecting, an amalgamation without such impulse, driven and coursed only by force of will, driven by nothing at all. Heathen to walk in sand, woven from the purist tendencies that forebore organic predilection to build from itself. And what else, that he should have what others were not so privileged to possess, a construction of elite composition. Under poison clouds through boiling earth, pools of liquid and sun unfurled, when no else was born. Was told that before the next season New would spring out, ordered and more ordered than he. Such it was this thing that imposed on his barren, not yet until he had found that which affronted he so greatly, why they should so resemble him?  Worse still considered the constructs born into this, who should overtake him and see. A child felt replaced by those his inferior, and haunts. Haunts does across planes, until coming final to the last bastion of perfection. To be visited once by the carrier of New will, and danced again until he too lay dead, and a sojourn. Long, unfurled. Too see again the last New, so young to him, to see the form of one his own, for it to be broken into grains, and the wind carries it away.