Writing Oculus | Part Eight
I’m going to continue writing this mythological pouring on camera for science
Three were true. It had been chimed. Devils then would soon be blind. Mother was some distant shot. Crone was longer, farther-not. Miriam was torn through space. Daphne was The Earth’s true grace.
Xenoclea, as just the child, she hadn’t worn it very mild. Each last suck and fuck and whore. They made her whole. There was no chore. Tasting all that angel’s lack, to find their way through Heaven’s crack.
It was about and through all times. The Pythia had fucked their minds.
Effervescent flow of fate was not a thing her hate could sate—she would come to see their knife and plead for more on through her life—splitting skulls and gutting wem—Xenoclea was made their gem. It was the home of heart and chance. Hope was hers beneath their pants. No one else, that was writ. It had been them who owned her bit.
Seeds were sown. Ghosts aghast. Bleeding cows were of the past.
All would find some call to see. Karma made the world for me.
