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What is left

from the whale?

Stripped from all

but them pile of bones.

Red Pillars of marrow,

stand still over the barrow.

Nothing but bare shapes

and vague ideals,

unfillable gapes

from preception to the real.

Remains are hollow

as Ruins on the hill,

for time has swallowed

the veritable will.

Here lays in erosion,

what used to be - king of oceans.

Yet his reign lasts by a notion.

As his ribs rises in palter,

As the blessed horn of an altar.

Grasped by those who seeks in warry,

for it’s revered sanctuary.

The moral of this tale reveals:

The blurer - the clearer it is.

Thus life’s circle consists,

as well in the bottom of the seas.

All the maps we ever tried to read

altered to portraits of our deeds.

If knowledge is a barrow

for our feet,

aesthetics are the marrow

of our greet.