• arthurjerrythompson 5w

    Sam Roma Siddeohar

    The mouthpiece of the void
    The king of his dimension
    The question in the pot,
    The snow sliding down and over the ditch,
    Sliding down again and growing in the rage,
    Slacks of steamed snow
    Cracking only a branch,
    Piecing its prize together –
    “Null.
    I am so sound, her voice
    Listen to each word,
    For there are no waves to carry it,
    And you’d only lose yourself to hear it,”
    But the void wrapped him in his hands
    And hid him away –
    The sun squirmed and squeezed into place
    The pot toned and turned,
    Withering in sweat
    And rubbing its head
    The cook added salt
    And went to bed.

    “I’ll go ahead and start the rain
    ‘N get that outta the way.”
    And the snow stacks fought back,
    They pushed back on the shy and burst
    Atmosphere like a balloon over the flame,
    And the snow was sucked out and endowed with doubt.

    The snow sought shelter on the seventh sun of Neptune,
    And Poseidon brought an ounce of flame
    From Promethius,
    And his vulture middleman,
    And set fire to the hole in the sky
    And concentrated it to a beam
    And make all of Terra his flamethrower.

    The consciousness of the void spoken
    His head at the muffled words of his mouthpiece,
    “This will be the last beginning,
    When this is finished
    It will end,
    So let them have this one undisturbed.”

    TBC
    Part II:


    ©arthurjerrythompson