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