god of the self-woven umbra

Slowly he moves in cycles in the ocean of the gods, yet paddling his keys more dramatically than grass in the wind. a mask of pain and a mask of aggression. He paddles in fear, only his own light to guide. He drifts above the twilight and bellow the surface. A back that shines like silver under the surface lights, so bright and flashy that the others say that he's glorious, that he is graceful, some envy his glare and some grow frustrated that this sapphire, chrome giant with all its grace moves incredibly slow in a spiral. They all overlook its defect. The keys filter the surface light, weaving a trapping mesh of the brightest hairline lights and the boldest of the abyss. The God only sees bellow, trapped in the confusing dark that constantly follows, searching in pitch black though light surrounds. The rest see his bold shadow as glory, and don't see bellow it, while the God remains unable to escape its darknesses and hopes, unable to tell the difference in a constant state of fear, anger, sadness, and confusion.