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