Geothermal,
the dark between cells,
humid with the buried scent
of Venusian fronds.

A message
scrawled by wanderers
in the underverse of flesh
with the crimson ink that pools
beneath Jupiter’s storm clouds.

Its words
feel of distance.

It speaks
with images
that burn a cool fire
as they trace
the smooth path of the neck,

urging us to question
why ancient Mu
beheld the sea’s maddened advance
and responded only
with the beatific grin
of a martyr.

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