You see, with me, the afterthought or the let-down moment of
"Oh it's just another Daily Prophet" attached to that incoming owl's claws
Signifies something more - and I search out her name there like Woden-bound men
One time sought out Abigail, the merchant's undoing but becoming thief,
Her name etched in ever-moving ink across that self-forming, heavy duty brink
Of success, or was it catastrophe?  As hearts go on ditching beats so needlessly,
Beat after beat after beat after beat after merciless beat,
The core carelessly deceiving itself in the hot seat.  For it's off
To Azkaban or not with all my hate inside my inky, sticky soul, survivals' guide aflame when
My brothers in isolation spend the season withering in pain -
I don't need a shot of glamour or a glamorous ending worthy of newborn fairy-tales
I need a promise of containment for me weary soul writhing in tethers
As the beginning of this season comes to a bloody close.



Dominik 10/30