To taste before the separation of parts,
annihilation of form-
in this am I consumed.
This useless desolation
implicates the early dawning conception
of lurid illusions of love.
Lurking in these luscious figures
a less quintessential nature lies;
the first descent is gentle-
the border of this hollow
picture lingers well around
pent up tension-
but the unsound sense
of active reception entices
further envelopment.
No increment soothes the hurt
of burst ideals-
the reduction of friction
between culprit and victim
is found in identity
when over the plunging verge
the confessional crescendo
sings to retribution.
Constricted in the stigma of these straits
awaited the blade falls loaded
leadenly massive fisher for kings
pregnant with morbidly spiritual
ostentation of penetrable
inviolability, a dent ate asylum
of questionable sanctity.
Thus betrayed by a high
note, bitten by the rule of no hopes,
the essential force lost,
I prepare for long death.
