a muttered yawp

the void reverberates

with stars birthed

in righteous violence

there is no room

for quirk nor trait

~

that forlorness

inherent in anguish

is a course gift

left to the draught

for a solitude

unescorted through sentience

is a blaze best named scorn

~

rise, rise above the dim

its bloom awash with loathing

there is no flow left unrowed

when time, even her beck ashining

folds