the exertion,

perhaps,

of a soul asunder,

be it weeks,

or years in

former, casts

extolled cost,

so paid in subsequent since.

be it

the destiny doomed,

those

wounds ambitious and ever

present,

omni-tolled

and talked in whispers,

directed to

those silent

shouts,

even if only in

reflection,

witnessed only by the

wielder,

while any such intended dwell

ignorant.

 

yet,

in the stillness,

unrelenting,

gnawing

at the cosmic marrow,

no one’s hero

with

abandon, abundant and unable,

lingers about the dreamt

and

undreamt purpose,

predisposed to a

melancholy fury,

the last ditch lashing out,

masking up the

hopeless,

in potency

perforated in this

space, through time,

declined dependence

on the un-intertwined

populace,

that the raging quiet,

cannot help,

yet fails to

hide.