Figurehead Fingers

Let it not be said
         That this plane bare no ills
For from over the ballast
         Malevolence spills

Or at least, spill it did
         Or it was, and it can
As portrayed repetition
         Blots a speckled time span

Composure of heroes,
         Gemenics, and light
All find acute balance
         With pockmarks of blight

And who, then, lays grinning?
         With spiteful contort
At the stem of the mottle
         That devilish resort

On mortis, sans vigor!
         It blares in crude tongue
Broken and hackney
         With full force of black lungs

And gracing his toenails,
         Alighting his brow
T'were millions of daemons,
         Each looked near a sow

With bloated-up noses,
         And juvenile limbs
Each screeching in discord
         Their own beloved hymns

The voices conflated,
         In wicked ascent
Trickled from wellsprings,
         Where soot meets cement.

That terrific object,
         Self-sustained and pure sonic,
Found root in man's head-holes,
         And thrived like sweet tonic.