Pride lies slain and strewn.
Splayed out before the Morning Star.
Eviscerated Appreciation still drips from the rafters.
Ego is a writhing dance floor for the flames that eat as they sway.
Envy, Admiration, and Love cower like beaten dogs.
And Hope. She fought well.
Now she dares not leave the well.
So what’s left?
They’re all dead or in hiding.
Can I know now why I’m here?
And
Can I smoke in here?