Shapeshifter

I feel the satanic undertow in my feet. The detritus of ages past, weighty and confused, like a freakish and gaudy necklace that keeps odd fragments on a string, hanging in a noose about my neck. I feel the cataclysms of the future knocking against my being, clamouring for meaning and pre-emptive exorcism in a vast wilderness of meaningless horrors, which compound and avalanche into new parodies of Eden. I see the flashing horizon gifting lightning to the sea in great spears. I feel the wind rush hurtling over the ridge and bearing the wickedness and torment of a thousand hungry ghosts. I feel the rank enervation of the angry damned, in endless soulless hordes, hungering for joy and emancipation in a fractured panoply of the macabre and insane, where wanton violence is the accustomed succour for the ravenous devil. I jump into the magnificent sky and change shape again, this time into the semblance of a giant moth. I brace against the cold and grit my teeth as the rush comes.