By Christina Sng and Mike Allen
Shark soldiers descend the Great One’s gullet,
teeth painted for battle, eyes lighting the way.
Polyp villages rise to defend, baleen swords
clenched in colonies of tentacles.
Spider-goats spin silk in the crevasses
of the Great One’s hide, their ambidextrous arms
outstretched languorously into Its depths,
picking at the stardust that molds their universe,
While beneath, leviathans drift
within the catacombs of Its bloodstream;
gargantuan antibodies feeding on the anomalies
spontaneously blossoming with chaotic regularity.
Desperate six-limbed squatters huddle by
the bonfires on Its ice-crusted eyelids,
too frightened to cross the event horizon,
to risk the black holes of the Great One’s eyes,
Singularities leading to another unknown
landscape, another to fell or worship,
another pecking order cold and sentient
as their frost-covered god.
Soft hummings ebb from the caldera,
faint swan songs, the winding down
of the eternal machine as Its denizens,
the spiny cats who know the truth, know
that Great One is dying, celestial synapses
contracting out of existence one by one,
prowl the brainbowl devouring each withered neuron
in hopes of preserving Soul once Body is gone.