and bred at a time when
the solar system pained from
the incessant sting of jagged rock,
you thundered the hydrogen-rich gases
of upper atmosphere, whirling amber, as
old as solar wind, a maelstrom strutting on
an immense orb. Mighty cyclone, are you the
cinnabar eye, the pure iris of ruby and maroon?
You stir thatâ€™s planetâ€™s loft, prowling like hunger,
frantic as the ancient nebula you once witnessed.
You could encircle many earths, with force to
sand continents as smooth as a billiard ball.
Perhaps you are the blood of a planetary
god left there eons ago to mark that
great world, assigned as cosmic
identification, an insignia
that lingers through