Alchemisland

Waterwarped stairwell steps creaking under his feet

Dared neither breathe nor release grip upon sweat-greased rail 

Palefaced made way slowsteady up spiral staircase to the bay

Window, gale forces flew forth from Boreas’ mercury-upbraiding maw

Nothing to it hindrance, straining the very hinges

Fixtures seeming to wince in ferrous resistance

Discerning a bird’s blurry form as it turned by his turret 

What creature of this world would fly in storm so torrid

Weather so inclement, unpleasant even to the winged

Hawsers lingering still on the docks hauled about, animated by wind

Flailing slithering hastily along the bay’s oily rocks like awful tentacles

Undulating in ophidian vanity, questioning then his sanity

Christopher medal in hand, he sang to vanquish thought

Those pleated vines sought upwards, caught aloft in full unlife

Did they not seem as hands with fingers gripping

Dripping, sea crypt from which leal squid serfs sprung them

Dire twisted triffids, what fire they have is that of Ifrit

That of smokeless Djinn who shrug to sin

Drugged by the spinning ropes, doped to the liminal

Lightning pies eyewhite the nightsky, spying therein some vile

Shambler ripping forth from gyre’s womb, something mindful

Mind full of dark designs and passion enough not to deny them

Defying what is seen, commanded “Come no closer!”

Signeted digits form the Salvationer’s cross, mouthing Our Fathers

Picturing mounds with warrior forefathers, recalling stories for strength

Ropes rapidly lashing thrashing, happy puptails through freezing hail

As if their ends were in a sailor’s mouth clambering up a wooden spout.