Vastness & sorrow.
Silhouettes of love, bold and heavy
Trail beneath cold-crescented moons,
That loom with doom-dusted memories,
Sour and pitch and vast and solitary.
What use are wings to the dead;
Of fruits, bitter, rotten to the half-living,
When no incantation can curse, or save?
Relaying grave messages to oneself
In night-time mirrors and wet windows,
Laden with shade and unfleeting sorrows.