Then die.
Set your affairs
Orderly as a rift
And still your heart's
Tremoring murmurs
I will be gentle
When slitting you open
I can work in blood

Why should I hold back
Restrain myself because
You prefer timidity
You and the world
Demand a tamed tongue
Subservience at large
My brashness equates to
Prostitution

My body gangles
It displeases
My personality lacks
It kindles bitterness
But I see, I dream
Vision to reignite
Stale detritus
Art will lead the way

Am I premature
Will waiting a decade
A century
Make my words palatable
Is Sapience not yet ready
The land writhes with
Mediocrity
Ascension will not wait

I burn
And when I have
Flamed away to
Charnel ash
Soon enough
I pray some
Miserable child
Limns her eyes
In the kohl of my life
And sees


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Lupar, in the year 867 AF.