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.

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