A bulbous throat of thunder, cannibal maw of the bog, living half its life under the duckweed with eyes agog, squirming out from clustered eggs with tail to race, feed, and grow, hopping on humanoid legs to hunt and breed and bellow.
Ever fixed, mother and child, lasting longer than the old limestone carved to honor sneering gods styled with grim-faced features, each god now strewn amidst ruins, the grass grown wild with disrespect, and by Nature sewn to temper pride to something mild, to hush the god and his feckless groan and all others likewise beguiled with conceits beyond flesh, blood, and bone amongst the countless ruins piled, whereas mother and child stand alone— through eons, mother holding child, strong without army or wealth or throne.
So polluted, this oasis in this vast desert, and so parched— poisoned with the unseen traces of what slakes us during our march; traces of poison created for convenience of our thirst thinking ourselves wise, and sated, to drink from bottles that are cursed, using death-essence that has staled from creatures of other ages to fuel the comforts which hailed progress in its doubtful stages till our death march comes to an end and we sink deep into the wastes to conclude, soon, this thirsty trend to fuel other species’ tastes.
Firstborn, yet never born, scooped from a womb of earth, yet from me would be torn she who would first give birth.
To give blood, and yet not the first among killers, nor the one cursed, but the first among the slain, blood for blood—sacrifice in vain.
A wager cost him dearly, though not a wager he made, losing it all, or nearly, except his faith which repaid his losses, although not all those who lost, and were thus laid to rest to prove him God’s thrall.