The Pantheon of Gray (Poem)

A void without feature, a realm without hand,

An insipid existence on textureless sand.

No fire for the spirit, no face for the name,

No cloth for the naked, no blood for the shame.

We speak of the heedless, we speak of the grave,

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Of the cold, hollow silence that Nothing once gave.

No deity watches, no devil consumes,

No breath for the living in sunless rooms.

Where Something dissolves and the vacuum takes sway,

Only shadows remain in the infinite gray.