By Clara Elizabeth
As the cratered husk that is churned out by impermanence and latent greed.
You must taste the floral fringes of this already quickly blooming night
As if you are momentarily mired in enchanting desolation,
Having all but finished fiendishly draining the last lifeblood from the sickly greying dawn.
I will love you fingerlessly,
Swathe you in eremitic reverence,
Allow every precious bleeding stanza to fill me with your fervently impending absence.
It is my most beloved blessing that there is nothing I can hold.