I hold that small comfort

That even the stars share our mortality

That the heavens are not eternal spheres

Mocking in their perpetual solitude.

Cut from the light

Nothing can shine here

No glitter from a soul

No absolution

The conqueror will hold this place

Born of darkness

And the death of the countless

Becoming our god

Feel that ancient terror

Creep across your skin

Stifle your voice

And chill your bones

This is a shrine

To the best intentions

The great redesign

For which we are the indemnitee

---

I watched the robin nest

As I entered the den

Of the lions

---

I wish them well

They wish to take my life

---

Bubbling miasma in the void

From which I sprung forth

To grasp at the promise of existence

To my lament

The new abnormal

An acceptable aberration

The construct’s inflammation

A bold conflagration

Chasing those fireflies

Lights that flicker in the dark

Guiding you home

To the abyss

Lulling the sheep

To sleep

The mesmerizing hands

Of the puppeteers