we await the coming of ourselves
like some sick twisted
schoolyard game
amidst the ghosts of logosmas trees
forgotten in the alleys -

in darkness reaching for
my own thick scars
crusted and faintly bleeding

scraping some long forgotten
memory from the bottom
of my stomach
only to swallow -

here, only silence remains

here, blood boils beneath the surface

here, days are not counted

until they are left to rot
molding under potato peels and
discarded tinderboxes
crushed like insigificant underlings -

when dawn comes
what will she find?
but hollow empty vessels
where we used to stand?

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Scarlatan, in the year 299 AF.