Into The Painted Grey

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