Sin

Why trust the moon when its horns are shaped like the blade of a sickle? He measures the passage of time not to celebrate life, but to document the slow, silver crawl toward the void. He is the father of the dark omen, the one who whispers in the ear of the diviner as they search for death in the liver of a sheep. "The future is a circle that has already closed," is the wisdom he offers to those who dare to look at the night sky. His light is a ghost-flicker that turns the world into a graveyard of illusions and shadows. He is the tide that pulls the mind toward the edge of madness, the quiet despair of a prophecy that cannot be outrun. He is the lord of the cold distance. He is the silver weight of the end.