by J. D. Reed
Buried in solvent pitch
Enamelled
The warm flood sounds
In gargantuan chambers
The pulse swallowed by the still black
The tremor sunk,
Vacillates.
The great eye slumbers
The lid is fastened with a barnacled lock
And hides the golden malice
Of an ancient gaze
Too potent to be returned,
Thoughts only guessed at,
It waits,
Things titter to and fro
Unrecognized,
As the god-blood moves
Through deep channels
And shudders at the tip
Of a languid limb,
Oscillates,
The thudding mantra
Keeps the pace of the tide
It is patient for its master’s call,
Her waters daily disturbed
By arrogance, hubris,
A subtle shift
It feels its size
Ruminates,
And Then
A bristle of anticipation
A spark in the Stem
An arrythmia
Aggravates the calm metronomic abyss
A twitch
A crack
The form is flexed
Splits the cap
Of a burning world,
Angry steam disrupts
The cold liquor
The flicker of an untold mind
Alive
The Brine erupts
With titanic force
Ionised,
The coursing veins grow hot
A deafening arrest
Preparing for the death
That lives within
Those limbs
That orbit nations
That could reverse creation
With a cursory
Lick.
A hesitation,
The dilation is arrested,
The summons has not come,
Just a rumour
Of the doom,
The magma in the vessels cools
The hum of apprehension
Secedes,
The drum resumes
Its stable
Boom
Not yet, but when the call is answered
land and sky will rupture at the brink
collide into the mirk, Indistinct
from the gloom
and the thud
and the drum,
Soon.
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