The crescent envelopment of my twisted roots. Ever-consuming, the grey mist lightens into nothing. He stoops down and rips out the encased fossils from the ground. From the glimmer of my aperture I'm watching.

He is the root of the tree. The multitude of ancients follow his lead. Both old and new follow to the edge. By his transcendent power we're led.

But they come.
Keep your distance for they live to devour.
Succoring one another and influencing power.
Living and growing, conducting and bestowing such an honor upon each other.
Don't get too close to touch—judiciousness avowing much.
Keep your cool and keep your distance.
Clandestinely they persist in their dissonant resistance.

He is the root of the tree. The multitude of ancients follow his lead. Both old and new follow to the edge. By his transcendent power we're led.

We drink and fulfill our lustful thirst.
Pledging ourselves to this earth.
Seeking such power to bear us up.
Leaving no possibility for chance or luck.
Endowed with the radiant permeation of this spirit's transmutation.
The root of the tree and the devourer of all.
To conquer and create. To rise up and fall.