You, you so roseborn and luminous,
in guise and lifted into nothingness,
out of fear blunted blind and bound,
selling grief all its laughable advices
.
You, you lie springless and inconsolable,
in famine outside of Truth’s Mercy
.
This is tragic
.
It is the broken’s tears
.
This is freedom in a world of dross
.
You weathered down call yourself perfect
while life’s dumb illusions become wills
and thoughts shape more dumbness
to explain reasons for all dumbness
.
Waivers of the only raised above
are tolerating vexed ridiculous ideals,
defined out from futilities’ stomachs
and will be found where miseries hunts
.
For while all High is praised
you love with what is spoiled
.
Ends
scraped forth
in suffering
where naught was
and soon forgotten
in turned sight’s snaring deeds
.
Warming this powerless pathfinder
which should loathe suffering’s might,
before he here infected will self-starve
outside the existence of Truth’s mercy