Decant forth sorrow and manque
into a vessel of vacuous pages that
no one shall read around as they
realize that the verses catarrhal
are from your too bitter soul
which bereavement shall not sweeten.
Bane of heart festers in this dark.
It is in the presence of your tears,
from which the blackest of blooms gives rise.
The munificent cause of your being;
the imagination of being known is
the one verity in this imagined realm
that shall depart from your whims
to leave you with no caprice to burgeon,
and then the finality of death pierces you.