this is not a litany of praise for my righteousness

but a damning tirade of curses for my stupidity, for which i ...

... DO NOT open like a flower in grateful thanks.

i instead wither but do. not. die.

of love

no sense of comfort is provided by my morality ...

... (but an unsatiated and infuriated love is, and it wakes me nightly to demand an audience for its’ torture)

the reward for my virtue is not exultation, fuck it

i. find. no. solace.

but where solace should be an aridity that will support nothing but grief

i am in mourning; bereaved as any widow

my own spirit my adversary

that which comes from within may weaken in my will for its’ exile. but the fucker will go nowhere without me

no conviction have i in my resolution. not any answers

just a thousand more questions banging around in the void of my long dead dreams