Bubble and light
at the threshold,
shadow and blight
from ages old,
the gate and key,
at warlock’s call.
Skin-deep, and a little deeper,
needlework that is a keeper.
Up and down, my work is never done;
up, down, up, down: not unlike the sun;
I cheated Death twice to live again,
but now I pay for my clever sin;
up and down, up and down this dark hill,
pushing in vain as I always will…
Flapping in the wind, yet also bound,
I do not fly by choice alone,
I have much to say, (without a sound),
and a spine, although not one bone.
Near at hand,
band to band,
chains that dangle.
As a kaiju rumbling
and spewing dark fumes,
a massive mouth grumbling
beneath ashen plumes,
rising up from below
its armored shell plates:
mindless, heartless, aglow
while its fury waits.
Fed on fat, the djinn grants the desire
for light and warmth oft together,
guiding and guarding with haloed fire
in the night or in bad weather.
Like a facehugger on your mouth and throat,
it penetrates as a parasite would,
but it keeps you alive, breathing by rote
while you are cut open for your own good.
With coils of electric wire
entwining a column stack,
its capital stands higher
when upright, stretching the back.
Greenery in the desert expanses,
bloom and water and many lances.