Don't mar untrodden morrows

with those treasured sorrows

that have gilded the mirror

of dysphoria with motifs

made of scoria, just because

the familiar feigns ease, 

as the sirens sing their need

for more kindling 

in the bonfire of habit, 

the one that lives 

only if it kills 

the exhortations murmured

by a metamorphosis 

begging to begin...