Listen.
Water murmurs everywhere,
talking in its sleep,
pulling rock sheets
draped in surreal folds.

The darkness shelters,
Oddities never meant
to surface.
But the yellow-eyed cyclops,
Flashlight,
Prods them,
Inspects them,
Rudely rouses them,
With blind curiosity.

Water, icy and aloof,
Ignores, pushing past
shivering intruders, while
Slumberous mammoth monoliths
sprawl and laze, indifferent,
Indignant crags look askance
and jagged, angry fingers,
claw at the passers-by,
Uncompromising
Cold shoulders
for unwelcome guests.

Crystals trickle, rocks
Dream themselves into being,
flowering, warping,
but bleed at the touch,
drops oozing frigid and clear.

Grovelling on ragged knees,
they burrow deeper,
sinking chest deep in glacial tides,
threading, wriggling, contorting,

seeking an unheard of inner sanctum,
a born glory below the embryos,
Heavy tired arms, wisping hypothermic breathe
They are the somnambulists, the sleepwalkers,
Oblivious to Cyclop's impending sudden end,
and the crumbling slumber above.

Every so often in the night,
the Giants wake and roll over in their common bed.