as his quill furiously scratched

its itch, on parchment paper prone

to stains of meaning.

that yellowed scrolled plane, that

time wasted tough--drank ink faster

than could be applied.

his hand hastily shed serpentine skin

three and a half times round the

waist of the earth.

while the growth marks of gods were

etched on columns that towered over

towering heights.

a swarm of winged demons swelled

curious over his quill, leering and toppling

over his shoulder.

in fits of fall they fell in my inkwell...blacked

out by the potentia of words.

truly meaning to mean anew, a lure proving

more evil if denied.