Once more, there, blood-reflecting irregular tears
A compelling itch our wounds offer
Flow now sustained, essencing, escaping – such violence
Finally, peaceful repose
Or, perhaps not, existence recurring,
Infinitely, as in a mirrored room
Ultimate cruelty of the Gods
The circular motion, which was Plato’s ideal for perfection in motion
Malignity of your reading this goddamn poem, just where you are, eternally
Hear the Gods howl, safely tucked away from the wretched expectoration
Of our perdurable, malodorous subjugation
Gifts of ever imaginative Moira