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.