Here in glades far removed of humankind
- with wisdom dearest -
my retreat is a boundless gulf
and a grief-stricken voyage to the unwary.
Tree’s edge, back-flattened to skulk,
the motes on misted air twist away,
to each its own path to solitude.

The curses of a bloated moon
(silent eye of midnight)
lacerate the earth
with rays of piercing edge.
The termination of a soul’s cohesion
e’er the thing to beware.

The gaunt bleakness of the sky
over ruined trees at daybreak
is a sickness to the mind.
Woe to this newborn day!
Too brief the night
and interminable the new day summoned:
the dawnrazor is a poorly parried foe.

Withdrawn from fear of death,
the turning of an immortal quest
aside from redemption
has sought its company
with those who step from the light.
The sky at night
is a hungering maw
and the souls of men its sustenance.

In a landscape like broken
glass to the eye,
the god who weeps is a mockery:
here, the broken toy of a
wrecked, sputtering mind
rues its maker.

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