Motive

Above the insects,
Above the creatures that speak out,
Its scream pierces my night.

Then, the low, low rumble,
Like a storm, a stampede:
Tick tock, tick tock,
And the low rumble,
Another shrill
Reaching out
From the mysterious black void.

Seconds pass, moments,
I feel the motion of it,
The power and purpose;
The beast has no will and no soul,
No instinct,
Only iron lungs, a coal fed inferno,
And the night to drive it on.

Hot breath escaping
A centipede's body:
Migration, immigration, or emigration.