Left spent in the detritus of
This extinction of moments that overflow
Those anticipations that now lie rotting
Upon a floor that groans with the gravity
Of imprecations and censorious guilt.
Abandoned to reverie and incubal madness
This unseeable absurdity of delirial prophesy
Eats away at useless apology and regret
And there in the dead of this hour of my wolf
I suffer the relics of a bastard age.