Let me be the womb to your clutches of
despair. Let fire and neglect bore down
into bloodied depths in a feast upon
this scavenged life. And in a shuddering
wakening of the soul, starvation shall
create what mirth could not and it is in
this derailed peace that there is a failing
molestation of the pure. From this shunned
burial ground will emerge a carnaged
soul, cuccooned in a stolen reprieve. There
it yearns for the expanse beyond its tomb,
to which it is hurled in a brusque exchange
for air; now a wretched existence in
a guise to beguile as it reclines in
the arms of its prey.