On the seventh day
He sat on the throne
Of the Earth
And faced a great mirror
That reached
Into the restless black
Above, like his hollow iris
Which bled syllables, signs and symbols

A flood that reached the horizon
That soaked every eye and ear
Every being that sought to
See, spit, swallow or speak
Or hurt, heave at what remained
Could only perceive

This language of the drowned
This language of the alone

That none could reach, only know
Know, but not understand
That silhouette that now stood
Behind every laugh and howl
Beyond every claw and black
Abyss, in every restful moment
And every violence

Confused syllables
That refuse to see,
Seeping from that unseen throne.

To look upon oneself
And find a citadel of half-wrought
Miseries and wounded passions
Where the birds all wore masks
Of hide and gleaming fixtures

Birds that enter upon a pile
Of stiff and tangled limbs
With heads, mouth open
Groaning cries of
Pain, as their teeth are torn
Collected to create nests
In which those enamel buds
Burst into seamless streams
Of bloodied skin

Curving together, crossing to form
A twisted leather medusa
That blooms rusted buckles
Which glisten in the sky above that citadel
In the place of stars for those citizens
To pray between a leviathan chorus of agony.