Life is dishonest. Its tongue forks our hope.
Patois of lies and despair, we taste the feast
it offers, the blue body
of devoured dreams. Thin and pearly-eyed, they rise;
resilient, in stanzas with stiff-limbed cadence.
From all the verse

circled heavily in red: Three harsh lines strike true,
restore aspiration. Understand, the truth must perish wholly
to be born again.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Scarlatan, in the year 630 AF.