It stood far above old mountains.
In my youth its legend stomps
throbbing the ground with each step.
Cursed into stony monolith.

Or trapped inside ancient trees
whose roots curved cave-like,
eyes glow red as the tip of a cigar
large as the biggest branch.

The legend of the Nephilim,
crumbling itself to fade like every
real wonder that is too large
to exist in our small reality.

Made magnificent in its rarity,
the careless fatality
of its loneliness.

02/13/2024

Posted on 02/13/2024
Copyright © 2025 Johanna May