Descent

A God, I say:
Let there be -

Plaited above lost mountains,
unknown, across blank lands -
a  plunging, unspeakable world
grave as Jupiter.

Ancient faces slip away -
some thousand moons fly past.
Fools below flap waxless wings
silent as departed mouths.

Soon the false prophet of waking,
the purl of psalming skulls
spare in drunk ears.