The quickening mist breaks like waves
under the lucent light that was the moon.
A desperate exhalation,
the dying dreadnaught of the sky.

The sword that split its skin
jewelled red on metal –
an open wound still steaming
a thousand lost souls skywards.

The being broken, fractured in three,
a trinity crowned purple
and bared like a bruise.

From the dark its death vector
on the scent of the jealous witch,
and where the white whale falls
no one comes to weep.