That golden palace of lawmakers and judiciaries
Looms in the sky of pure judgment like
Black hills of eyes chasing tornadoes overhead
Your six heads, and I, the lost seventh,
Am detached as though a useless cable would be,
Stretching across the bottomless pit
Of the Atlantic, grislier than ever-
Just, just, a dark sectioned serpent
Of the tumultuous underground
Comes, carving its own colorful
Landscape, a story to behold down
The sandy floor, hoping to hope
Not being seen. Quite-
And someday I would like to
Be that serpent; maybe I am, though,
But only able to jest, not to be serious
And of many rainbows, avoiding
What I am always told, traveling
Through the seven seas, each a head,
And I will at last be able to
Understand what makes these connections
Of you, you and I, I.
Down there, in the everlasting bottom,
Forever now and evermore uplifting
Another life and future.
It is not as heavenly and tranquil
As one given my freedom would believe.
O woe, is me!
O the fool, is me!
From the ocean floor, I still see
The building of those judiciaries,
A judging family
Above the moving water,
Rippling with jumping frogs
On water lilies, floating like
The big palace of princes and kings
And goddesses and gods-
And their cloaked judgements, too.
I somehow notice them all,
Even away, even away-
They wait for me to rise above,
And finally take me to trial
In front of those celebrating crowds,
Amused by every yell and cry of mine,
Even while knowing
I am never, ever coming home,
Let alone to be judged by them again.
No, great serpent, I am never coming home!
