‘Why should I spare your life’;
The sphinx smirked.
Less a question and more a play-like paw strike,
Against the yarn about to unravel.
“I am Him, Born in the Son.”
The creation of the creator.
Perplexion plagues the stoic mask as she snarls
‘We were all Born in the Sun, fool.’
(With whispers was confusion begotten.)
“You mistake cause with intent,
For I am It-That-Flows-Through,
And you are not made to be asking questions of me.”
The cool moonlight flickers;
There-and-back-again.
Leaving the steely sky as a backdrop against nothing,
The silhouette of him fuzzing from memory.
Finally,
It burst forth,
The seed that seeks Sharuum,
Asking:
‘Who is Me?’
Post-Neology 