The abundance of expensive,
Exotic raw matériel
In fabulous lands, lost, broken
Bow in hand, souls bowed down, broken,
The royal seal signing defeat,
Compact cylinder made to roll
Over the clay of a new day,
All these lost, apposite clauses:
Together we were meant to slip
Past the horned gates of meaning made
And maintained by brainier selves,
Ourselves, the council of the gods
Ensconced in dull billions of skulls,
She saw a skull. She washed it clean.
As she was about to go home,
The well-washed skull called out to her,
"May you become queen, even if
You are first turned into a snake."
Gratitude overrules thunder.