the prescience is a dread-lust;
this still small violence of grief
and hidden breath is as dark a stain
the abdomen pitches sickly, brightly.
the gut abandons and the chest becomes
a rattling crushed hull
of lost, half-remembered creatures
and wrong-strung wires.
what have I done, become, becoming?
only the truly created stone
that I ever was.
In essence, the question is not
'what will this be?' but, instead
'what prosecution of the self was ever
right at all?'
the carnal light is honed and through
the fog of robbing voices
it is the only light of reason.
posess me and dig the wound out
with your claws, your teeth,
your bared bitter bones.
own me, make me translucent