Conciseness

His face is bowed in masked, unknown worship, casting a shadow deeper and darker than darkness ought to be. He does not move, for in movement lies light, the source of which burns with sun-like intensity. He is slow, he is inexorable, he is deified, for as he stands in the presence of the light he becomes one with it, however briefly. And so he is slow.

He does not look, but the light makes him see. His life is a museum, his sins exhibitions, scenes in a violent tour of his soul. Nothing escapes the light and nothing escapes him, though he is slow.

Resistance is impossible, though the shackles of the light grow rust like mold. His ankles, bruised and chafed, have turned to pudding on his bones, and his heart cries out with joy. He appears downtrodden only long enough to allow himself the time to consume his darkness in cannabalistic survival. He is preparing himself. He waits, that he might strike.

Into the blinding star, within the core of the fire he sinks that he might rise again, triumphantly holding the heart. His suffered knowledge is not in vain, for he has now the crushing strength to drown the light in blackness, himself overcome and destroyed.