what is said of spiritual death is rarely ever without merit. A life continues, but it is no longer yours. those breaths escaping, ear-warmth in december, are not yours. maybe not in the sense that your body is yours. it never was. iris seeks out busy patterns, *******-splattered canvas in cacophonous {splendor}. within them is the pair of arms often dreamt of, clutching a more blithe, unaware ether of one’s self.

what is ‘regal’ can no longer be claimed. yet infilling begins, where once vacancies stood, cavity gape and naked, temples of our majesty are quietly born on white-robed mornings.