There are black smoking vents, where all that breathes
would die. Yet things breathe there and call it home
who perish elsewhere. There's a massive dome
lost in those depths. A tendril slowly wreathes
its way up, round a pillar, up again
onto the architrave. It seeks the sky
it senses far above, yet it would die
burst like a bubble. We would go insane
if we should see it. Yet we know it's there-
it haunts our dreams, it nourishes our art.
Has power over us, because apart.
A presence we depend on like the air.
And you, dear Beast, if we could see you clear
would madden, yet we praise for being here.