I have always been fascinated with the planet Jupiter. It's romantic pull on mythology cannot be understated. It's massive size and gravitational strength, it's mysterious properties and perpetual storms of swirling gas – what a rage of wonder and chaos. I have often likened Jupiter to a massive beast, a serpent breathing fire and smoke, capable of massive destruction and terror. This poem is based on that epic notion of power…

They split me wide, my tender guts splashed on their steel. It'll take more than cheap pinpricks to seal my fate. I grab a clutch of men, a cowering horde of creeps striking from behind. I crush dozens of them, a burst of radial heat and froth making cinders of the brave, crispy little matchsticks that crumble.

What tattered legion from the west, a baker's dozen, fools for ungodly scripture. I will introduce them to pain. They will never own my flesh, for this serpent is older than dirt. I have known the warlock and his kin. Their dirty bones are now in my belly, a black magic of theology reduced to a low quivering fart. How pathetic...

I stomp a few more legions, a gaggle of wicked orcs, how delicious, their juicy little brains. At last, I awaken, the mother of all fires set before this mortal wasteland, infernal tomb for infants and crying mothers. I am Jupiter, last of the gas giants, dragon with an ice cold heart.

Soon this world will be my tinder, a blackened moon for devils and the like. My final shriek will rip the fabric of history, angels will fall from clouds of ash, and I shall implode into a singular infinite speck, triumphant in my perfection. Jupiter...