Basalt remembers the weight of moons.
Kelp crowns drift from one throne to another.
The gates of R’lyeh lean inward, listening.
Thal’gorath — a lantern in the marrow —
breathes green into the pressure,
folds the trench into a single syllable.
Chor’vess intones in the cartilage of the sea,
its pitch a corridor without walls,
its whistle a tide that forgets the shore.
Nyxthid writes in phosphor,
letters unmoored from their alphabet,
rising like bubbles that refuse to burst.
Somewhere above, the surface
is only a rumour of light.