The Deep - Auld Lang Syne

There's a shadow upon the deep
and a face gazing up at night
a beast without photon
primordial wrath wrapped up tight
a muzzle forced around its temper
like a bit in the mule's mouth
fight squelched to wisp and whimper.
A tempestuous sea, laid to rest,
the mythic tumult, put into a bowl-
one from which I drink mockingly at meal time,
no power left but a harnessed vitality.
but saving such sacred sangre,
we drink from chalice.

Depths imprisoned in the beyond
withheld until the wayward wicked
dig their own pitted graves.
The fate of the Sinner's Shovel
is to face the Deep.
Every person meets their works' end.
The man digging the pit,
finds it is his own grave.
But the man who listens and hears,
taking what is given with thanksgiving,
sees his works are folly.

A time will come when all scream
"Let loose the vault!"
and rain down floods of justice.
By the same water
some obtain life,
others death--
for it rains on the just and unjust alike.
But not all are affected the same.
And the terror of the seas,
hide tanned, toothless, without blood nor life,
nor reality,
is without power to regulate them.

#Switch.it_up_kid (music, memory);

Beer and memories taste like
a mouthful of blood and knuckles--
both sweet an rancid like
decomposing leftovers--
the rush to finish the dead like
a hasty but heart-felt eulogy--
sounding as a broken bell like
a town which once thrived--
only citizens wander as phantoms like
a poorly written history book--
devoid of chronologic or conclusion like
my mind's grasp of the past.

Edit.doc(1.1.11), gut;

But first...
I've got all this nonsense ringing in my ears.
If not in reality, at least in my mind,
and that's enough to trouble up the waters.
Auld Lang Syne.
To be remembered or forgotten?
I don't know.