• The dark and twisted realm of my own hearth,
    Before it I do pace both aft and forth.
    The pulsing viscera I had called my heart,
    My thoughts unturned, my door ajar, a draft

    I shiver off the cold while angst remains.
    I jive at weariness of my heart, so weak.
    The world is inside of my head contained.
    I cannot understand what these foul friends seek.

    The world of mine and that of truth run juxt.
    They tell me stories that can be and not.
    ‘Till truth, befuddled, hath run aground, amok.
    The simple question of love and that of nought.

    And so love do me satisfact.
    That is, until it runs out.