Last of the Ascencion (Verse) - 3
Mockery
The voice waited just beyond light—
where certainty fails first.
A shadow wavered at the curb—
unwilling to commit to form.
“You thought you lost them again?”
“I’m touched you care.”
“We live to serve.”
Mockery arrived dressed as devotion—
as it often does.
They bowed without weight—
their edges never agreeing to remain.
“Not that you need us—
oh mighty one.”
The words landed—
before meaning formed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But meaning had already withdrawn—
laughter taking its place.
No time.
He stood—
dust still clinging to him.
The mala tightened in his grip—
as if it, too, resisted being ignored.
“Damn it all.”
He stepped forward—
and the world adjusted.
Wind struck—
salt, sharp enough to notice.
Light faltered.
Sound reconsidered itself.
Something paused—
waiting.
Then—
“Careful, little bug.”
He froze—
not from fear, but recognition.
The voice—
silk drawn over thunder.
“Memesis.”
He turned—
as if she required direction.
Nothing visible.
Nothing absent.
Presence does not need proof.
Sweat traced him—
small betrayals, still counting.
Not today.
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