Verse 8:7 — Liminal

My Throne —
Carved to endure by Xivu Arath —
God of Love —

MY COURT IS WAR, AND YOU WILL FIND ME THERE.

I am war, and my throne is deathless.

Come. Cut the outer curtain of my fortress, and it will open its new eye in a bloodless laceration. Cut further to see inside its walls: the yellow fat, the purple viscera, the teeming rust-cut capillaries.

These are the colors of war. THESE ARE THE COLORS OF MY COURT.

My gates open to the most life. The swollen fountains run with blood and burst with arterial spray. The paths are paved with small white teeth. They gnash beneath each footfall, their roots raw and alive.

Look! I have raised cathedrals made of flesh. When a breeze caresses them, they blush and contract, fine hairs sensing the change.

They are worshipped with bare touch. MY THRONE SHUDDERS WITH JOY.

The halls of my palace are echoing throats, slick and filled with breath. Its windows are glazed with skin, opalescent and alive, latticed with blue-black veins.

The seats of my throne are fashioned with living bones. Break them, and you will see their raw, red marrow. Break them, and the wet pith will writhe. Two are knotted with scars: broken and reformed, broken and reformed.

Look out from the terrace and see the worlds we will devour to sustain us. It is a mouth, yawning black and wide and hungering. It is open in screams of base need.

MY COURT IS LOVE, AND YOU WILL MEET ME THERE.