The Kraken

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The octopus waits in his garden with hungry eyes blinded by solitude. In a cave deeper than time, carved from the crystallized flesh of the earth, he counts his treasures. Sulfurous stalactites, pulled like taffy, drip to the ramblings of the molten core buried below. Forgotten by the dangling sky, the Kraken whispers to himself in the dark. Stories burdened by time, muddled by memory, hang on his beak, slither over his neck, creep down, down his tentacles and into the bloodied waters. Memories of the young demigod come to steal his oath, bend his allegiance; sever his loyalties. The gilded youth, with spear in hand, come to negotiate the terms of surrender. But the octopus had only to laugh, raise arms, and the would-be conqueror was no more. Back before the rise of man, and the fall of gods, in the golden era of heightened senses and fearless passion, he had been the last to come undone.
The octopus waits in his cavern with restless tentacles deflated by ambition. On a bed of emeralds cauterized in the skin of his temple, the kraken would lust for her. Ocean temperament, high class sociopath, her eyes also hungered for deeper dives. A brash visit to the bottom of the world, a night of sadistic games and empty promises—she evanesced into legend.
The octopus waits in his tomb with stagnant heart longing for death. In a deoxygenated pool of darkness and shadows, he searches for an exit that has long since eroded. Counting the seconds to impact, he feels for the broken parts in an effort to cut off the pain. The last myth passes slowly into nothingness.





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