My morning star. How sharp are her teeth; how piercing her claws. The muscles in her back lurch forward before she pounces onto her prey. She has been fixed in the dark of the night like the North Star, and she will bring unto her a lost people. Lo, they have branded her with the mark of the beast. Repent, lost people! The old order has crumbled into the desert sand, and from its ruin unearths an angel of prophetic light. Her mission is peace; her soteriology is redemption. And her fangs? Her fangs drip a crimson streak. With a voice that shatters stone and tremors temples, her words will carry the cosmos.
Oh, but I am blind. Nevertheless, in the void, I still may gaze into her solar flare. My morning star.