scribbling on the old gods:
the ones that never existed,
save for in the mind of a mad man.
cold beaks, worm-like, bundles of eyes,
space worn, and ancient.
a glimpse would spiral someone out
of sanity, I suppose.
over three months time
paragraphs tend to morph toward
ungainly logic. alchemy glows
over words I compose. still trapped
in this lighthouse, I wish to be unmoored.
now I babble about what the madman’s mind
knows.