A storm riles the

  shapeless expanse.

  Empty silence kicks up

  a cloud of dust,

  amorphous, colorless, yet

  visible to the shifting eyes of

  the Nameless: one

  who drifts about the elsewhere

  stripped of their colors

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  and threatens to sink into

  the deceptive comfort of

  the nowhere.

  There gather others lost:

  some to rapid currents that bit back

  relentless without reprieve

  and stripped them of their own

  shapes.

  Others forsook their shapes

  on their own.

  For why would one scale the rapids

  if it is easier just to float

  comfortably,

  effortlessly,

  mindlessly.

  The Nameless, too,

  finds itself there

  but as an ambassador

  to the other lost still on the

  right side of elsewhere.

  It debates, however,

  once at the edge of the river

  where the current washes away

  all one's colors and shapes,

  whether it should dive in itself.

  Then, by the riverbank,

  it finds a small star.

  The Nameless Voice approaches it.

  It picks up the shining pearl

  between hesitant fingers that

  tremble.

  A thought, it thinks to itself.

  A musing, perhaps, worth a glance...