The Monster

   The monster is great. 

It reaches forward to drag itself across time and earth,

 with arms the size and length of mountain ranges
that span the ocean floor.

Its head floats like the core of the planet,

 but is low,

because the bulbous weight is too much

 for the monster’s body

to hold high enough.

It’s one purpose is to scream

 as loud as an eternal chorus of ocean waves

while it drags itself toward nothing using unfocused eyes.

 Its bludgeoned body disappears past its chest,

as its ribs are lost

 in the haze of the horizon,

and each cloudy welt and bruise, stormy and deep with green,

 never stops welling up with blood

from the monster’s murky bones.

   The monster is terrible.

Filthy ink is endlessly
 covering, and flowing from, its skin

and stains rock and soil,

 sand and water.

Under each splashing torrent of gritty black is the oil

 and blood

pressed out of all living.

 Flesh is soaked into the dark,

and the remaining bones crackle and splinter

 from the heat

trapped by the stain.

Lives, homes,
 and hearts
are violently drawn out as streaks

 of domestic entrails.

   The monster is human.

It’s muscles flinch into action

 with the first breath of every newborn,

and relax

 with every death rattle of the moribund.

Each generation forces one arm forward to overlap

 and supplant

the other,

 and each arm is pulling away, ripping at the monster’s chest,

causing it to forever wail as a desperate attempt to scratch

 the bright, painful itch

of gentle serrations.

   The monster is real.

The monster is Me.