Tonight, the smouldering of my heart

listlessly spits out colourless mote.

The fire is no longer blazing,

and my vision is greyed and glazed in

weighted sheets of smoke.

 

There had been an onslaught of passion;

a slow slaughter of song; a crucifixion;

a paroxysm of portents pulling me into

 

a dark night in itself,

with all of its cryptic shifts and covert strife- 

swung then a phantom, wretched and hunger-breathed,

encroaching the girth of my neck.

 

It is no enigma how I then grew cold like death,

how my bones bemoaned their home..

 

"Distract the mind, by bearing body with task."

 

I won't forget

how I turned my back against time,

in a shut-eyed, ice-encased incubation;

how quietly I crystallised in rumination,

hiding beneath diaphanous sheets.

 

Could you hear the hushed clamor?