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I walk though my heart aches

from being positioned underfoot.

Impoverished I still endeavor,

clinging to what is priceless

only in my estimation.

I do not think myself loved

even in exaggeration.

A cabal of branches gathers ominously overhead,

a curse to all outsiders,

a boon to the cherished few within.

I am a Scorpio,

stung by my own misgivings.

You are the intractable augur,

the needle in the eye, the finishing blow.

Words with material defects

I am made manifest in your unerring prophecies.

Oh but the attic is cramped

only a little more than a hand’s width across

and yet here I remain

a grimalkin, castoff, wretch.

Would you admonish me,

tear the ether from my tattered lungs?

Are you the strangleweed,

the vampire that feeds and then forsakes?

My heels are dripping with blood and dusk

and still I creep ever forward

to the ruin that you have wrought.