The Creator Chronicle: From Page to Picture

These water giants do not tread20151207_170256 (4)
Lightly, sea spray and tidal waves
Crush pirate ships, there is no sense
Of adventure breathing under this

Ocean, blimps from submarines
Automated machines, final moments
Released in bubbles of air, the last
Breath taken, this deathly lair of

Nightshade and parades of octagonal
Creatures, the old worldly preachers
Disappear into a blackness of ink a
Substance so thick it congeals in

Misshaped lungs, criminals run on
Fumes and lose the ability to plunder,
Deafened under thundering arguments
In the clouds, the loud speakers are

Simply malfunctioning, proud storks
Carrying packages drop them in transit
Flat palms and tornadoes hit savagely,
The breeding grounds of monstrosity,

Chlorine ebbing through their veins,
Lions roars and tangled manes matted
By terrified taunts, and I, I stand by
Shoreline, watching them flaunt their

Power, fling toxins in the skies, witness
The prize of creation full throttle, messages
In bottles wait behind cracked glass,
No one knowing how long apocalypses

Last, treasures chests filled with brass
Float, there’s so much time to devote
In the end of days, these water giants
In a haze of unbridled rage step over

My head and out of the pages, skin
Crinkled and pruned, introductions
Ruined under static silence, the town,
Asleep, in the wake of this violence


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