The shining storming stagger
of this pestilential block
is begging to be free
from the gyre, like the hawk.
With mouths agape and eyes
well draped, the crows begin to move,
flinging from their heaving tower,
claws scrabbling at the grooves
polished metal gleaming
afire in the noonday sun
round the bloody specter low
the teeming ants do run
amok amongst the dark tall fronds,
the creatures seethe and rouse,
the sleeping beast with his dark hair
amidst the baying of the hounds.
“Come to me, spread your wings
it only takes but one
alight upon my shoulder fair
i swear it shall be done.”
Rounding out the gyre
crazed eyes glazed and set
dark against an azure sky
temper has been let
