My safehaven,my compass, my stone!
eschaton binding the teeth which the clockarms
     strike their fangs along like useless submissive matches.
Patchy skin blent with herself from her dream
    the other night;
                               a scale no flame could level or waters be heavy enough in mass to drown, merely flood and freeze in time
    
               --hovering in limboid quantum silence--
A gift for the next lifeform to discover and make-believe a divine structure
left by some macerated God that has hitherto gone about  
unspoken.