Through haze of open war 
and fallen worlds, 
Persistent as the dreads of private past, 
Hangs a blinking light. Shrouded, 
demanding to be seen. 
A protrusion, cold, dead, geometric, 
Thrust from the light 
In defiance of death and 
In spite of the laws of life 
long ago etched and written – 
long ago burned and forgotten. 

This cloud, suspended in space, 
Knowing land but never seeing it, 
Swirling and mixing under its own existence, 
Stretching and colliding. 
A second protrusion, hinged on the first, 
And on, as further it pushes 
Into the unknown. 

In swift response come the waves 
To crash one by one 
Upon the shores of the 
Further reaching spine. 

Jonathon Best©
October 2020