Now she is seated in her tower of silver and steel
Waiting.
Behind her, walls of glass erupt into the frigid firmament
Then stop, by some unnamed force.
By some hand, some decision, they go no further.

The black leather cocoons her, throne-like.
The smell is comforting
Like something real, alive
In this aseptic world of sterile cleaners, bleachers, filtered air.

A tread on the threshold.
He shuffles over into her domain.
The vast room looms before him;
The domed ceiling bleeding into ebony walls
Peppered with chrome artefacts.
Legacies of greater ages,
He thinks.
Discarded remnants of the dead,
She knows.

“A samurai sword,
that must have a story?”
Her glittering eyes a warning.
What do you want?
“So you’re in recruitment?”
Pause
“What does that mean?”
“I sell souls” ha ha.
The man blanched.
“I do not believe
In souls.  The concept is worthless to me.
However, I see that you have the ‘God’ gene.”
“And you were forbidden?”
Her skin flushes, draws strength from the crimson corona,
“My parents were poor,
A modern-day nephalim.”

Later she turns to witness her world.
A sea of monoliths pierce the air;
Giants, staking their claim on the nothingness.
Below, dwarves rush through the evening deluge,
Wearied shoulders, drooping heads,
The giants demanding their sacrifice.
Hearts beating out each second,
Blood flowing for the evolution of empires.

And above as the west draws Ra and Apollo in,
The ether is washed with blood reds and pinks
And the purples push shadows into corners
Where Emim and Awwim sleep.
She is surrounded by day-dreams of fear and desolation
For he did not come.

She draws the sword and paces the room.
And as the night deepens in the crystal cold emptiness
A star falls,
Crisp, bright, transitory,
Disappearing into the abyss.