Sometimes I think I'm trying to be the lovechild of Hart Crane and William Butler Yeats.
I promise not to jump ship.
Heavy Lifting 5/6
One could talk about the bridge as if it were a cauldron
Large, black, possessed with foot soles
It is a marching thing with tentacles of steel
A holding on between sides of a river
Large cascading handles spreading hypnosis
Of progress from above the liquid void
Like it is the root of something
A questing darkness, nothingness that is searching
For a key to unlock its powers and bring the dead
To life to roam and flock the towns to bone
Mortar and pestle of hope, that is failing in every aspect
Large alright, but spindly, tiny narrow threads
A spider-hold on a moving continent
What falls into the darkness? What pulls itself hulking out?
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