Into its maw, our tithe.
All our shadows were razor thin when it was set a fire. Bipedal sundials gathered at an altar. We huddled in its light and secretly wanted shade, despite that scarcity, we communed, while it fumed. It hissed its satisfaction and bellowed wispy plumes.
We offered flesh, hard fought and meager. Into its maw, our tithe. That debt paid, its light grew chaotic and made smoke to rise. Our offering was suffocated in flame. On the upward flying column, white tinted gray, scents pricked our noses as notes hit our ears. Like the hunter glassing a kill our gaze and postures aimed by instinct.
Pulled in magnetically, our emptiness needed destruction. The line fell into a circle, maybe more of a knot, tightening around the prize. The altar, finished with its sermon of fire and smoke, gave the remains to its followers. Our knot closed. Our commune, in unison, appeased our emptiness.