These soft stones you call stars claw at ravens, underneath the skull of your irony. We are not without our useful futilities - That function as the only spiral of our narrow chasm
yawning in the wicked mist that tingles in the nerve-dead breath, your charms are few - well met and the hour has lost it's keening dread... Where the hourglass slept -
Things are not the things we name things, alas Our lexicon corrupts the numb jest - the dumb joke that chokes the joy out of dominion and bloats the vulture till it simply