befitting of laurels,
saint of the mountains, usher
of calm winds.
befitting of apocalypse but less than
apocrypha,
stepping between fish, guiding all
to bliss and sleep,
as the one who exist only in
eclipse, pushing tides that sink ships.
basements and quarries quietly mutter your
name, unsure of what comes next,
they who live between life, tombstone
your makes
fleeing your breath
child your touch
unknown your thoughts