Creature, Slave, Or Captive Prey? Poem by Shannon Walker

Leviathan can swim incredibly deep;
An ocean rip-tide on Easter morning,
Funneling across the plane of our natural existence,
And all the children scream on cue.

The utter lack of originality
Is the first clue;
It's so god-damn banal,
Much more subtle than a pistol shot

To your neighbors head; that's just man
Being man. It's a pistol shot
To the back of your own head
By your own hand; that's beyond man,

But not to say, fresh,
Lucifer, or even that original.
And then, it's muddy flesh will surface
Before rolling back and away,

Just enough to scare the Holy Hell
Out of you. What's the video game say?
'The Devil is real; I built His cage.'
That cracking laughter will change you forever.

You'll become a nut;
The Rosary three times a day,
Derided and chided, laughed at;
A Saint, all the way to the grave.

But you saw something that day,
And that sinister picture will never, ever, fade away.
You put your head down in the water,
And saw the Beast at play.


'Never get out of the boat; not unless you're going all the way.'
Apocalypse Now