The coldness we took for indifference.
Or the rising arctic waters.
That strangled scream or misplaced regret.
In our dead vast emotional forest.
Snow covered and silent.
Epic, only in the place of such failure.
The cool touch and horror sprung elation.
In vibrating closer towards the unknown.
Touch me once and shiver.
Lick the emptiness that withers.
The monolith planted now inside our souls.
A place no-one goes.
(Though it’s dead I cannot see, the monolith in front of me)
What if it were all an illusion?
This repeated loop and monumental oak.
What knowledge hoots and chimes in its branches?
What reasoning is tucked away in its roots?
Though the city hums and breathes a static.
This monolith covers all in shadow.
Waiting to be lifted again.
By such fragile divine fingers from above.