Skin of the Giant

Freckles mar the skin of the giant,
though it is only shadows I see.
Lumbering clouds linger oh, so compliant
with the wandering will of the breeze.
Water and clay, this giant has made,
a wonder of astronomy.
I wonder this day if I left or I stayed,
if this behemoth would notice me.
Likely not does the parasite notice,
that he is just a disease;
on survival is the host's primary focus,
not the bugs to whom he cleaves.
Numbers ceaselessly make me nauseous,
celestial concept of infinity.
So ironic that I must live so cautious,
because my days are numbered by thee.

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