The jagged lines in these wooden hands

speak of a silent aeon below the depths

of an austere ebon tide

for centuries kingdoms have risen

upon the ancient hands of a god

once severed for the world's birth

a sacrifice to the storms of life

now darkness is thine sanctum



Temples of magma steam across the grey

The arc that transcends my iconic pride

For I am not an ageless god, no, I am imprisoned by time

These ancient palms shall once again be mine



Hands...hands that lift the oceans

to vertical depths above the stars

For when I die, the universe will die with me

and all will be lost forever gone



Where am I?

How long shall I suffer here?

Forlorn in the cold neolithic embrace

Forsaken deep in the sullen tide

How long shall I suffer here?



Perched on the cliffside gazing out into the brine

My archaic beard pours downward and joins the feral sea

I am the heritage; the quintessence of myth and legend

The archetype of Pagan might and divinity



Hands...hands that lift the oceans

to vertical depths beyond the stars

I gather a celestial blanket around these tired bones

and finally slumber in the clouds of ice

These are my hands...

...so it is done