Pain is a separate soul—
the soul of an abandoned world.
He approaches from land burned with fire
forming log ghosts. His watchful steps inflame
Anger—hasty and raw.
A gust of wind disperses smould’ring remains.
Amid them, grief sleeps in the ashes,
cradled in mournful blackness.
I lost my paradise—remember me
when you come into your kingdom.
Sad rain looks at the horizon that draws
its apparent curve.
Early sun ignites the blaze of revenge
and grows across the holy reach of sky.
A single tear falls, spent among countless
grains of sand where the Dead Sea spits out
leaden substance, too bitter and dry.
Over this asphalt drowsiness, death hangs.
A wan smile lifts from her cadaverous mouth
like incense smoke, earthy in its scent.
Ouroboros bites its tail; opposites collide.
The first day dies. The last assumes its throne.
A white snake rings the iris of Sigurd’s eye.
You stand, Alice, overshadowed.
The universe thins into the average.
Your thoughts, once born in fictional heavens,
complete their passage to the unmade.