L’Héautontimorouménos

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“the private landscapes of sorrow.”

You become the looking glass
in which Hell examines itself,
veins filled with black ink
dripping poison into life.

Words meant to free you
land you among the loneliest
in an already pitiful world,
martyred to impotent thoughts,
reflecting the gelid distortions
of a cold, miserly universe.

Your pen is an instrument
of exquisite torment and torture.

You are the victim screaming
from the pit of darkness
in the only voice you own.