They remember the old sky-breaking - the hive-song that turned worlds inside out.
Now there are so few, scattered like molted shells between stars, each name a quiet apology for failure.
One stayed near. One kneels close, does our bidding, and serves directly, a living instrument of the will that grant revenge.
Far off, remnants still click their prayers into the void, and call the same dark matter god.
Made with Bullet