My soul remains fixed, focused on an illusion of myself-- unable to find anything akin, vaguely attuned to the living. Ghost of my ego mumbles this plea, aphonic and unanswered echoed forwards into death; that is how slivers of spirit fade. Sundered dreams linger, turn cold, raping the imagination-- it is nothing, nothing compared to the memories. Child spirit ripped apart, splayed across the rocks of time, recedes within its mordant niche-- cicatrizing that which was, forming me of late youth, right eye blazing with chthonian stigma. Fearless in assuming the soul of curst beast, lustful now in moonlight, eager to be savage-- in rapt gluttony I kill to feast.