The cull of verses
Have all been mercilessly dispatched
Before my grieving eyes
With my own trembling, guilty hands

The smoke still drifts
From my battered and grizzly crime
Toiled to death
Toiled without thought or reluctance

In this foreign absence
I refuse to carry on
To drain away my vital signs
Once more, would be a step too far

And so the hushed sinking begins
Consumed by former reveries
Forgotten aspirations
That clasp for my promising fiber

I dare not speak
Of the rising treachery
For the pain is too great
And the strain would be my very last

I shall
Remain humbly silent
Unwavering in stillness
Preserved, by a whim of forbearance