Apocalypse

A leather-bound book lies at the bottom of the sea,
Resting upon an oak pedestal engraved with antediluvian images,
Deep in the dark throat of an ocean cavern,
With the history of man inked upon its pages.
New words appear on the waterlogged pages day by day,
Slowly arriving at the last page of the book.
As the last few words fill the empty space of the ancient volume,
The book closes.
The ocean boils,
And the Kraken bellows from the surface far, far above
As the shadow of King Arthur's vessel glides across the ocean floor,
Its return voyage from Avalon. The leather-bound novel turns over on its oaken pedestal,
And new, happier words fill the freshly emptied pages.