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     The old man's trophy,
        antlers impale my      v i s c e r a l     veins. 
  Love, a moth's wings, ash-dusted, flutters its last
       in death's gnashing gullet.

      My soul—a 
         charred fetus,
   longing and annihilation 
     wrestle and thrash in the 

womb’s dark dilation... 

 Terrible beauty
    claws poised—waiting
to devour me w h o l e.

   Leaden sky crushes; bruising hues fuse,
     raining suffocating soot.

      V o id s // Vo r tex.

 Despair's dirk, a devouring dance,
    a mother's lullaby,
   heart's hollow thump— 
      death's cold fingers tear at my
tangled, torn, time-worn, tethered skin.

  This brief brutal ballet,
      a grace unplanned—
   I fade, a shadow's ghostly 
     cry swallowed by the void.

    Root .  Rot .  Garden . 
       of my dread,
  where life's incense chokes, 
    angels fear to tread.

Do poisonous black orchids bloom 
   from ribcage   .    soil   ?

   Fetid fetus, fate's fickle feast, 
     blind to cruel snares,
 in death's throes, 
    I birth my despair.

      Vo id's Vor tex.

   Shadows slither, serpentine, sinister
in my 
  fevered head, an 
    ann-
     ihil-
      ation of  .  molten  .   red.

 Time's ruins, a palimpsest of shattered dreams,
   meaning slips; fingers bleed,
     heart torn apart.

  Womb's doom looms, consuming truths 
    in life's guttering spark—
journey through lands . 
   cold  . stark  .  dark.

    Endless roads where
      shadows start and dart.

   My mind, a 
hissing gas chamber of 
 vertigo thoughts—falling apart.

    Persephone's hair melts—a Dali dreamscape 
of pomegranate seeds,
 dreams pursued where 
    nightmares breed.

   Heart, a vessel of 
     guttering light,
  in death's face, 
    defiant, despite

 life's lost pieces— 
   a 

j
  i
 g
      s
  a        w 

bled of dread-filled

V   O    I        D.

     Voi  d s  .  Vort  ex.

   I  a m  .    p  e  r  P  e  n  d  I  c  u  L  a  r, 
     severed from     l   i   F  e—
     I would rather be dead,
begging for cold Stonehenge courage
  for    the    h  o  r   L   z   o    n    T    a     l
of       the          g      R      a      V      e.

The Voids 	.	Vortex    .    g  a   p    e     s,
a black,   

serpentine swirl,
devouring light and   .   life,

with primal, pitiless hunger,
   its spiraling   d  a  r  k   ness

  writhes like a wounded beast,

pulling me into its,
R A W,

          r a v      e      n o u s 

c
 
a

v

e.
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