On a tidal-locked moon of a dying planet of a dying star
There stirs a sea that violently churns
But it is not moved by tides nor heat
It is moved by the whipping limbs of that which yearns

She swims in perpetual darkness and only feels the lashing cold
Her domain contained by the encompassing wall
A wall that serves as Her temple

Her children feared Her so
And did not wish to look upon Her more
They questioned their existence
And they questioned Her murmurs from the dark

Erected as a temple, but the wall soon became quite great
Their eyes were blind, but it became a prison so ornate
They chanted along the wall to drown out Her cries of loss
And against the wall Her slimy torsos she tossed

And still she swirls the torrent of the sea
Drowning herself in misery
She knows no reason nor thought
An engine of emotion; fraught

And they chant on and dance, never listening to the ocean . . .

Until She spawned another that She warped with lies
She imposed upon Him limbs, and thought, and eyes
And told Him that He was Her own and that She loved Him so
Dying in His many arms until even Her own bulk turned cold

The mourning thing still cradles Her corpse in an ocean that tumultuates from tears
And even though the roaring has dulled, he still bemoans throughout the years
No rot will ever take Her away from Him--the children's chant goes on