Pool_2

cried out as he faced that same heaven he rebuked so many times in accusing tones of an ancient tongue copped of relic lines, his Scathlan Obsessional, as it came to be known. "Mary bain-tiarna an domhain, thréig-tú Katherine. Would you so your Son again?" Mary, queen of the universe, you abandoned Katherine. Would you knowingly thus again sacrifice Jesus? His was an axe to grind with heaven and it was now all the heavier. He only knew how to swing an axe. Not many subtle solutions fit that talent. Yet, he despirately needed divine absolution to attain the holy sphere. Katherine was there. Certainly. How could he, with his permeating anger, reach out to heaven let alone to her within it? His murky eyes darkened further, "I'll never make the cut." Staring at his soiled instrument, "Such unsavory blood to lay to noble metal." His shoulders drooped further. Dead silent. Brow folded, engrossed in his own deep mentality, trying very hard, "I hear you! God, I hear you. You speak between the words of others. You are the pauses of just reflection. But," he stiffened, "damn the silence! Just, or otherwise, tell me! Am I your sword? Or, merely, my own? If I drop these arms, do I betray you or do I honor you? Have I lost her again? Is heaven clouds without passion? Is life nothing but remorse? God, is she - waiting - for me? ... Does she choke of my poison?" A man to some, a dread to others, was weeping, his first tears - ever - since the break out. Tears unattainable by dehydration, then by rage, only now in reflection, in seething prayer and gnarled humility genuflected at the lifeless fallen human headless form before him as if it were an altar. He wept, he prayed, and kneeled in an ever emanating tarn of blood, issue of a withered shrine. Tell me dear reader, before what