Loneliness is a moon-kissed clearing,
Sweetest sorrow softly nearing,
Home long lost or never found,
Winsome heart bereft of sound,
Twisted tongue and quickened mind,
Sever bindings to like kind,
Tear-stained mirror, empty bed,
Feeds the loathing in the head,
Whomever was is now not,
The soul spoon-fed mind’s masochistic rot,
Whether hither, thither, or far besides,
Matters little to the flagellates hide,
Shall this pain now ever end?
Can hate-weakened minds contend?
Is the sorrow in the offing?
If behind their hands they’re scoffing?
At this twisted heart that beats,
Ever slower in the beast,
That I have now yet become,
Now that the deed is gruesome done