Now,
days in which I felt less worn are gone,
‘Neath black swan’s wing, I bed my forlorn thought.
I have no grasp upon myself or mine.
The truth of tomorrow grants me my absence,
And I am of a mind to thank its stance.
I fear thee, morrow of which I remain
Absent and without a hope to give
Without first permission; the truth of today.
I denounce the stars. Their light brings me
No reflection of my glimmered dermis.
Such rays do not penetrate my sullen,
crimsoned waters, for their light serves only
in forming scabrous, clotted purpose.
I run and babble and cut, through the virgin
earth that is my sense. Wearing. Never resting.
I am a passenger upon a path
I do not recall etching of my own
volition, or deceitful intention,
this infertile land in which I course.
In time gone by, I felt not this disease.
I reflect and perpetuate this plague.
I felt a warmth that did not cause decay,
My body did not steam and hiss in day,
And of the night, my surface shone in rays.
Though not with tide, I felt the moon’s embrace
And all would see, for I held all but mine,
For beauty gleamed, as was my purposed truth.
Light hath no tongue; but is all eye.
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