Her Grace

As unidentified flies of augury whittle down together to coagulate in a mass of wings and scales. The tentacles of Veda reach beyond a grasp of understanding, licking, sticking, and clicking against the chosen of yesteryear. And thus, fables of illegitimate children sink into the ever-grasping black abyss, of unknowing.

The moon set high above the horizon, the black, inky ocean reflecting little light, as black tentacles grasped forth from the murky depths. Reaching, ever-so reaching for the orb that floated in the sky. A cloudless, everlasting night; though snowflakes found themselves daintily drifting down toward the uneven lands of Cold Harbor, a spectacular sight.

Hills, dips, plateaus, coastlines; the land had it all. Pale spirits stood in various pieces of the land, forever wandering, babbling nonsensical phrases. The unopposed propositions that create enigmas were long forgotten after the scholars that now dwell the dank, lonely landscape had found themselves here. Cold Harbor had no true meaning to it, its mere existence only constituted by the mere desire of its chief contributor.

Like the night, Her Grace is to never be truly seen, or to be truly understood. Yet She may be seen, but is it truly being able to perceive Her? Is She to be understood, or to be understood is to be Her? She leaves those in confusion, in bewilderment, in misunderstanding, in uncertainty. There mere idea that one could understand Her Grace was pure, unadulterated misinterpretations, pure insanity.

Her perfect smile, Her fair locks that cascaded down her back like a river of pure gold, the jagged crown atop her head. A perfect imperfection, a hideous depiction of a wild woman gone awry, that look of pure wrong; madness to understand her, is madness for one to keep. Her Grace contains both of these, yet She does not.

Her Grace, Her reach is beyond the beyond, and before the before. Before there was a beyond, She beyond the before, time was naught, space was lost. But Her Grace held out, a simple, sickly sweet smile, a mysterious, yet enrapturing smile. Pouty, yet proud lips, eyes emblazoned with fires bright enough to set other flames affright.

'“Each of your minds are full of emptiness, and I am bright pinpoints within. Without my stabbing light, your perception would be a great nothingness, unknowing its emptiness as a hollow abyss is unknowing of itself.”'

Her Grace had fully explained it, to all souls within Cold Harbor. To beyond the beyond. To those from before. To those after.

A cosmological awareness beyond comprehension, a misunderstood mantra, an allocation of misconnected, misunderstood, mitigated thoughts of what truly didn’t require a considerable amount philosophical knowledge.

Pinpoints. Shocks of light, jabbing, stabbing, striking at the dull void of nothingness. An unaware, indecisive mind, of which cannot truly fathom such explicit words beyond Her Grace.

Labyrinthine philosophies, such cannot be striven upon to gain a further understanding. Everything of Her Grace was, as night, shrouded under a cowl of darkness, yet She would do no harm. A kind being, shrouded in the grasping, suffocating clouds of darkness of uncertainty; yet behind the perfect smile, is more, so much more, but the smile itself is depicted in darkness.

A trivial pursuit to many, though to some, the greatest rewards are always shrouded in the cowl of the night. Her beauty, beyond that of a Nightingale’s harmonic song in the deep recesses of the night.

Countless, numberless, infinite others have come to terms.

To understand Her Grace, is to negate her.