Mundane, molting in the shade, moth under black light
My heart grasps at dusty winged angels, hiding from a sunbeam
A glass empties itself down your throat, vile pitcher plant soul
Gripping and splitting my lost life asunder, efficient self destruction
Clear water corrupted, blue air bereft of blown wind
In this surrounding stillness I bury my head like a child
Attempt a portage around my grief, a bottles relief poured amber
Peeking through a promise of broken glass paths to hell