Lo and behold, the castings noire,
The mystic shadows are a breaching fury,
Neither figment nor la verité.
It is rather the very concept of the irrational, sadistic spirits among us, like us and before long, us.
The concept that the parasitic barks, ashen on the irradiating centre so willfully feed on the motor of this inertial frame.
Yet still, the coupled frameworks of steel glow brighter than burning coal, the nourishing womb of its shape.
The combing silver, wooden tentacles fend off the façade of the mirthless milieu.
In this magical forest of doom, these merging arms do not clash.
They gather all that is God’s own enlightening embrace.
Location: Bryant Park NYC