In lieu of a thought…

Qhagus dons a fair trophy
Flapping like clapping hands,
Well it is--
A string of fine fingers,
A string of fancy rich fingers
Groomed and polite
Gilded, ringed, studded in gems
And pointing to the source of gravity,
A grave predicament, chinking amiably.
,

Ahoy, a fiery exchange
The grapeshot, the
lugubrious pause
Stoic in limbo.
Now his blade unsheathed
Muscles bunched on a spring.
,

Asea here
on the periphery
Trundling the sprits
It’s a moot dinghy
Flung about on waves
Adrift--a mere shadow
In the wide expanse
Of a drunken, cola,
Molassen sea.
,

Rowers choke on a
Scullery wet suit knave
Groping, pulling tossed
Under inky blackness.
Asea Quagus
Wields a fair talisman,
Cleaving all, blazing
A bloody route into
Propinquity;
The twitching hordes.
,

Grasping a hewn
Lumber rail
He vaults over bloodslick
Planks wading deeper
Into carnage,
His long appendage
Biting into nameless
Foes, slack and pale
Faces--they die homeless,
Abrupt, fingers curling
Reaching to their
Fleeing souls:
Bargained for promises and lost.