Ardor, death, and anger.
Why does the corner talk?

Sullied desolations cry amber.
Tears rip eyes apart as they flow.

Lord... noise!

Sky takes on the graves hue,
swaying trees curl on the wind.

I seduce the sensuous venue near the fog,
Vultures wont, the transparency reborn.

Wraith, begone!

So thirsty.
Hardly breathing.
With moonlit step.

What lies in rituals,
to be performed by a man?
Today's work is sacred,
praise for mourning less.


"...if some night, when the logs whistle and flare..."