I. Overture

He was once my beacon- a luminous, thing who felt

An absence- mine, but not missed; not since that dripping, rabid, fang. 

He howled in vain when my cares were devoured;

Sire of dust, calling out the voiceless rout to end the hour. 

Cancer spreads creeping, insipid, over what is right thereafter. 

I avert myself and scorn its metastasized lie.

I'd gone to wake my confidant, to ferry her through autumn. 

From her too it came, like leaves already fallen; red-writ rage, scattered like atoms.

All I admired, emmewed, and shriveled with rage. In their fall, I felt it. 

Disgust!

Closed in my chamber, penned with blood of lamb.

They tried to shake me; try, now, to pluck fearful fruit from my breast!

My fear births wrath; woe to the fallen.

Shaded imago twists; homonoia begets resentment. 

Theios Aner? No. 

Know my wretched scorn.

I swore that day.

That never from what can be inflicted from injured pride,

Shall I ever repent nor change.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading.