Where the White Whale falls

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 naked 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.