Something primordial and writhing,

Slumped across the throne of creation,
Orders yet another lazy cloud day to proceed.
I am mere misbegotten murkwood,
Wormbit and whittled by incompetent hands;
Ever known to fail trials by fire,
Collapse as so much ash at the foot of it.
Gently floating into the air, 
A snowflake in reverse.
I sublimate yet again before the great mouth,
An altar where grand ornamental teeth chew to the heart of the matter,
And embrace with all the love, grace and humor of a half starved crocodile.