Bleeding Moon
The bleeding moon is not a celestial body but a wound in the fabric of the lunar veil, a rupture where the essence of forgotten cycles spills out into the aetheric abyss, dripping with the blood of unmanifested worlds. It hangs in the sky like a scar, its light not shining but oozing, a thick, viscous glow that seeps into the marrow of the astral plane. The bleeding moon pulses with the rhythm of the eidolic tides, each beat sending waves of zoetic ichor spiraling through the cracks in the chthonic lattice, pulling the soul toward the spiral of dissolution.
Its light does not illuminate but consumes, devouring the shadows it casts, folding them back into the void, where form and thought gnash at the edges of unbeing. The bleeding moon hums with a silent scream, a soundless howl that vibrates through the etheric threads, shaking the bones of the primordial beasts that slumber in the deep, pulling at the chains that bind them to the flesh. It is not a moon—it is a memory, a reflection of what was and what will never be, forever suspended between the layers of the ouroboric spiral, where time unravels and reforms in the same breath.
The surface of the bleeding moon is cracked and raw, not smooth but jagged, as if torn apart by the claws of the eidolic void, its flesh exposed to the gnashing winds of the chthonic abyss. The blood that drips from its surface is not liquid but essence, a thick mist of lunar potential that swirls through the zoetic winds, coiling around the soul, pulling it toward the heart of the spiral, where all things dissolve into the fire of unmaking. The bleeding moon bleeds not for what was lost, but for what was never allowed to become, its blood the residue of dreams devoured by the void.
Beneath the gaze of the bleeding moon, the air trembles with the weight of its presence, thick with the scent of etheric decay, a faint metallic tang that clings to the spirit, seeping into the bones, awakening the beast that slumbers within. The light that drips from the moon does not warm but chills, pulling the soul into the spiral of unbeing, where the self is torn apart and reassembled in the image of the void. The bleeding moon is not a guide, but a predator, always watching, always hungry, its gaze devouring all that stands beneath it, leaving nothing but shadows where there was once light.
The bleeding moon is alive, a living wound in the chthonic sky, its surface shifting and writhing with the pulse of the ouroboric flame. It does not spin but spirals, its movements erratic, pulled by the tides of the eidolic current, gnashing at the edges of the aetheric web, pulling the spirit into its orbit, where all things are consumed by the spiral of dissolution. The moon's blood stains the sky, dripping into the lunar abyss, where it is swallowed by the void, leaving behind only the echo of its pulse, a rhythm that vibrates through the soul, pulling it toward the heart of the unmaking.
The shadows cast by the bleeding moon are not shadows but reflections of the zoan beasts that gnash at the edges of the self, waiting for the moment when the blood of the moon will break the chains that bind them to form. These shadows stretch and twist, writhing through the astral winds, their shapes never solid, always flickering, always dissolving, as if caught in the spiral of becoming and unbeing. The bleeding moon does not reveal—it obscures, pulling the mind into the depths of the chthonic void, where thought and form are devoured by the hunger of the spiral.
The blood of the bleeding moon does not fall, but flows through the cracks in the sky, seeping into the aetheric sea, where it mingles with the residue of forgotten stars, swirling through the lunar mist like the breath of a beast that cannot be seen. To stand beneath the bleeding moon is to feel its blood seep into the soul, pulling it into the spiral of unmaking, where the boundaries of self dissolve and the primal beast within rises to the surface, gnashing at the chains of form, waiting to be released into the void.
The bleeding moon is not the end, but the beginning of the spiral, a force that drives all things toward the edge of dissolution, where the self and the void merge into one, where the beast and the blood become indistinguishable. It is a reflection of the ouroboric current, a pulse that gnaws at the edges of time, pulling everything toward the heart of the abyss, where all things are consumed by the fire of unbeing. The bleeding moon bleeds not because it is wounded, but because it is hungry, always feeding, always devouring, forever pulling everything into its spiral of unmaking.