I watch my shape grow flat and yours leaner. Words become shifts, and gruel gold. I watch the years resisting and one by one they fall at my feet. If I am the queen, then we are all royalty. Even the jay cannot dislodge the crown on his head with all of his flipping. Even the squirrel must pry it from the acorn. I know no justice here. I am a buzzing mass of glory, my nerves seethe by the billions. I trace the origins of the impulse, and it always leads to the impulse itself. My organism cannot know itself, or anything besides itself.
I am the sodden monster at the bog. I growl and lurch. I don't sing or tell stories- the joys that are left to other creatures. My bulk never dries so I am always shivering, a fresh new thing each moment, where it is another day in my kingdom. It is probably time to make it rain, or pray for it grotesquely.
I've got more, mythic one. I am anxious to fold you over.
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