The darkness is falling from the sky. The chill of its fingers fumbles towards the ground, great arms flowing and shaking as they take hold. Limbs like portal passages in vibrant smoke, churning as they reach, blurring as they touch, whispering, the sky is thick in midnight, yearning to take over the ground.

The body of the darkness’s reach is its silent core. A unspeaking sphere of stone, blemished, circling its older sister like detritus. Sick with sores, unwanted. It is a mirror of its missing glow.

Afoot on the moon, the air is blood and silver. It rains, perpetual rain, up from the flat grey surface and onward to its nonexistent atmosphere. The clouds are empty, and emptying, thick, spasming and burbling as their contents pour out. A thick-red wash, misting, mercury, breathing fire and ice-cold white-hot acrid fog.

She stands at its center. At the crested pole of its convergence. She looks up. She blinks through the weeping haze of air torn apart. She breathes, and her lungs ache with agony. Her step, resistance in an ever-washing tide, maelstrom baring down on her from all directions.

Sunken in the sanguine liquid steel, there is a black flourish. In the flow of unmaking air, a spire of midnight moves from her mane. Its eyes form dying stars in the moon’s churning canvas, collapsing upon themselves and the world. Smiling, and sending her to her knees.

There is oblivion in this visage. There is a horizon echoing the end of days there is the death of hope the spiral of being unwound a cold, dead center. Her shadow’s mouth moves, laughter, and sends ripples through the red sea.

The darkness is the place of failure. The turning side of silver is where consequence settles. Do you feel accomplished?

She cannot breathe. Her body has no need. She coughs in a sudden vapor of expulsion. Her soul struggles to remain inside.

This pain is yours. This misery belongs to you. Aching lungs grant her body to the ground.

Her shadow sneers. What hoof guides besides the one at your behest? Jealousy is crafted the same as any tool. It is a blade forged in the mind, turning inside. Shirking your failure is only evidence of weakness. Admit to the faltering of your conviction. Sink into nothing.

The solid unsurefoot is resistance reluctance barely open eyes still the burning wheel of remorse. Bloodsweat as oxygen abandons its mortality. She has no choice.

Amid the umber whorl of star-lit nebula encircling her collapse, she looks for the swirl of Chaos hidden within. She finds only her reflection.

The moon will glow blood-red. The mirror glint of her sadness will sustain it. Her tears allay the inferno as it swims, as it burns, as she sinks. Regret burying her to her asteroid core.

Silver is the sun’s lunatic refraction in the sky. The dark soul of eternity’s dissatisfied twin can be unmade, but it will age slowly. She will count the years. When they have gone, only grey ash and forgiveness will remain.

Until then, there is penance.

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