I comb the wastes defined by others regret, making sense of their presence and suing their humanity.
A purpose without eyes is replaced by my contempt, unfocused lest it find the black of my incense. My grievance flays in silence, abraded with the gray of indifference.
I follow a stained path broken in time's own annulment. The crust of wear is covered by a hoary frost, trapped as a flame is burned by my breath. Airless, I watch it wither in my apathy.
I am calamity s will.
What is lost.
I am the hand of death.
