dry ice

day grows sere 
eon grows serer still

dawn draws near
eschaton draws nearer still

Reaper Moon

That silly silent moon slowly ascends, a buttery balloon 
Its bright mellow gleam splinters my watery eyes 
Its beam like a spider-spun silvery string 
Chaining my soul to its glimmering golden bowl.
The moon is mine 
mine alone, as long as I linger in its thrall 
it breathes its clay-cold life into me alone 
and all the wide world evaporates into blind oblivion.
I am knighted, crowned, exalted, sanctified
Purified in its frosty furnace-font.
Thus emblazoned I reign over a world of one
me and my benighted moon —
La luna sordomuda mia
— that pale-haloed harbinger of monotone doom.

Exile

Behold the willows watered by thy wandering soul —
Yes, the very willows whereupon I have hung my heavy heart.
Lo, how they weep!
Oh, how wondrously wise.