I feel the world like a thorn upon my throne.
The pea crammed under a thousand down cushions.
A stray whisp on my wet lips down the neck of a new lover.
I feel the swarm, the mighty tsunami from the wastes.
Burning me up, as if one were to wrap his hand around the infinitely absent sun, and hold it to his heart.
Consuming, obliterating, not embracing, not enveloping.
From my ashes another will rise, tempered, and impure.
Strength from the dross,
something so blasphemous and unclean could build such welded durability.
Something so imperfect
could grant this.
But what manner of gift is this?
At what cost did my purity come?
I feel the world
from my cold vigil, high and away,
strangled by tranquil solitude
forgotten like childhood's frivolity.
Empty, but not hollow.
