Anon

Sorrow, seen in a teardrop haunts my waking; a wellspring of lies.

The nocturne, stretched cold over a surreal palette, courses its way through

My veins as a cruel sun heralds the season of debauch.

A jewel of hope and of dignity once warmed my palm but the

Veil lifted and the ember scorched my weathered claw.

Forgot, the loving caress of a maiden’s kiss,

Void as shadow, a fleeting memory; it too titters manically behind me.

The blood must not flow lest it poison the children for

Their screams would scar my heart beyond all remedy.

A rusty machine, tragedy, no longer vice but integral calamity.

The future regurgitates itself in front of me.