A poem
In the depths, the leviathan stirs,
disturbing sediments.
Twisted forms writhe, coils without number,
scales rasping against the murk,
swimming through aeons untouched.
Beneath warped boughs,
lies a grove untouched by sun.
A stillness permeates the darkened glade,
an air of timelessness, of cycles ceased to spin.
Upon a throne of gnarled roots sits an antlered form,
features obscured in shadows, watching, waiting.
Atop a precipice, a lone tower stands,
dominating the landscape,
its watcher gazing out at all below.
In his crimson robe he sees all,
knows all that stirs upon the land,
cataloguing, analysing, ever planning.
Minds are his playthings, fates his twisted threads,
none beyond the reach of his influence.
In the spaces between, where stars refuse to shine,
he lingers, a presence vaster than comprehension.
Not evil, yet beyond good, simply uncaring,
he drifts through the gulfs.
Speculate not his form or purpose,
for madness lies in that direction.
Accept his existence
and hope it continues onwards.