silent night, holy night
free me from your brutal grip,
truthful grip, oh how I am falling
falling  
 falling
  falling
   falling
    falling
      to the wake of reality

time is a wave
pillow is depravity undeserved:
my head should rest in dreams alone
for races condemned to three hundred minutes of solitude do not have a second opportunity in past days

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I      the stars are few tonight        I   Q. window window on the wall I       I        less for want of light              I    who's the weakest of them all?  I
I          than for having fled            I   A.  see for yourself                        I
I  the burden of being witnessed  I  Q. why can't you show me what I I              i too would dim               I   want to see?                                   I   I             if it meant no one              I  A.  0                                                 I  I         could name my sorrow        I   Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.Q.  I
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

it shrouds me
this pale view of distances                     un-X-X-bridge-X-X-able
this nocturnal solo elegy                            ave falsus corpum
it brings me ever closer to death                                                    
my gentle repose

but do not pity me
even the darkening star burns
and the softest tremor in the chest
means i'm still reaching for something > 0
even if i call it sleep

so let me rest,
unmourned, remembered
for that dismal resilience;
bleak survival
through the depths of night
for one stanza longer

In the blanketing abyss of night's prelude
no lamp subdues the dark within
but rather set a hazy stage:
lucidity's awakened hour

Dimly and diffuse you blur
through my drifting lines of sentience
reaping your cruel harvest, slyly
scattering my germinal love

How grim this fate that you have cast
upon my hopes so premature:
aborted at 3 weeks
more loss than I can take
enough for me to bury
enough for my resentment
burning unrealised:

fire of my nascent eyes
piercing through the false eclipse
scorching your covert disguise
the veil I long to rip apart
and disintegrate with verity,
to spit upon with love's acid froth
crude as every image of you
...
crude as dispossessed illusions

For I know you no longer,
and grasp for silent solace:
I can still turn the lights off by myself
by myself

the beauty, the resolute stillness of night
and the absence of a day's wreckage, too
is no consolation for that greater hollow
which yet darkens my countenance
and voids my soul

but in the aches of time, all shall emerge complete
if unfilled then at least whole —
holy, even — under better eyes than mine
more open eyes than mine, heavy under insomnia

so, in passing with the moon,
that complete and empty dawn will arrive by a close of the eyes, a gentle descent to sleep

which is why it cannot come so easily,
lest the waking day illume my solitude