The Creature lies deep, faraway in its grasps
Its breath held within, its time in a lapse
Though nary a sound is heard from its lips
In time comes the cry of a shriek from the rips

The creature holds none but a stone in its throat
Memories past gone, old stories afloat
Each breath that it takes seldom awakes
For the Creature is but one that partakes

The sky holds the limit on lives lived askew
But for those entombed it hold less than a few
A frightening flash of a fancy gone flawed
Is the story that holds the Creature aloft

Its metal claws grasp for a greater grain
A particulate of life that was not buried within
The movement, the being of existence, of truth
Is none but a dream for a Creature past youth