What Earth? This Earth
shall no longer harbor me.
This life, written
red in a charter, sees
no salvation but the
swift and cruel release,
and then to hell —
I sell my prayers of peace.

What stars? These stars
will not freeze my fate,
nor render for me
those ivory gates
that I thought too small
to quench my appetite.
Ah, they’ve grown so tall —
and I so slight.

What soul? My soul
was slashed by the pen —
no, by avarice.
I scoffed at wise men
who shed feathers in my lap
and begged — no, prayed,
when my blood sapped
that my hunger be staid.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

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