the jagged lines in these wooden hands speak of a silent aeon below the depths of an austere ebon tide for centuries kingdoms have risen upon the ancient hands of a god once severed for the world s birth a sacrifice to the storms of life now darkness is thine sanctum temples of magma stream across the grey the arc that transcends my iconic pride for i am not an ageless god no i am imprisoned by time these ancient palms shall once again be mine hands hands that lift the oceans to vertical depths above the stars for when i die the universe will die with me and all will be lost forever gone where am i how long shall i suffer here forlorn in the cold neolithic embrace forsaken deep in the sullen tide how long shall i suffer here perched on the cliffside gazing out into the brine my archaic beard pours downward and joins the feral sea i am the heritage the quintessence of myth and legend the archetype of pagan might and divinity hands hands that lift the oceans to vertical depths beyond the stars i gather a celestial blanket around these tired bones and finally slumber in the clouds of ice these are my hands so it is done