He waits beneath the scarlet sea.
His voice is thunder, whispered quietly.
His eyes are faith, felt in fear and wonder.
His grasp is the course of finality.
Wretched like gold tainted ****** and plundered
by evils that wear the faces of men like a veil.
Scaly and pale. Dark, mighty and frail.
With a voice soft as thunder, and eyes like the moon
that move the sea in tandem with black hearts that fail
to see; to dream; to outlive their doom.
He waits in solemn and sacred slumber,
solemn in knowing his sacred duty to be.
Black eyes judge without remorse.
Cold scales clatter in ringing course,
echoing through wet depths of eternity.
Softly, his voice reaches out through the fade.
He beckons the faithless in cruel duality.
They abandon false idols of Gold and Jade.
They reach for his shimmering promised wonder
and he takes their outstretched hand...
As his tendrils drag the doomed souls under,
black eyes shed no tears for the filthy and ******.
"Such is His word." He whispers, in a voice old and rough like sand.
Softly, he shivers, and the waters ripple unmanned.
"Sinners..." He whispers,
"Won't you come take my hand?"
There is an old story, from the Golden Age of Piracy. Many ship logs tell of a voice, beckoning the dogs of the sea step into the waters, and meet their maker at last. Many men listened to that voice, and Leviathan feasted well on each occasion.
