Section 35

Out at the ninth and tenth gat,
the stations send out crimson waves rolling and bending,
so it cannot move,
only count stars and wait.

It had a name in its culture but it had trouble
remembering it now, the eternity here in
the maintained void at the edge of the dark
had fulfilled its portion of its purpose
awfully well.
It had no body really, only blackness, or shadow
that mixed in the black, pure matter, an elemental reality.
It had a face though despite the living shroud,
a face of white pearl smooth and edged.
Two eyelids sat in the center, slits no more then an inch.
There were eyes behind it, but we could not tell, we could not tell.
There were thoughts behind it, but we could not tell, we could not tell
Its cold there, it could feel temperature.
Endless cold, too frigid for air or man.
A monster from the dark it warped time, and pulled on
bright stars like candy ribbons fresh and boiling.
It would learn histories and alter them.
It would kill kings, queens, presidents, princes, dignitaries, leaders,
emissaries, poets, writers, painters, filmmakers, all that ilk.
Till things were more becoming of him in the present.
It's others caught on and imprisoned him here.
On the thickest edge of space, where stars
barely stem the horizon in sparks, where
no species travels, clusters, colonizes.
But what stars are there it counts tediously,
endlessly, continuously, till each far glimmer burns
and reflects in its eyes.
It even memorizes the hazy lines that spring from the star.
it counts them too.
In time it knows they will no be able to power the stations,
and send out the rolling fire to curb it.
Until then.

Out at the ninth and tenth gate,
the stations send out crimson waves rolling and bending,
so it cannot move,
only count stars and wait.