Gazing Drunkenly
Into the abyss
My Modus Operandi,
A new and violent vision
Clouds my thoughts.

Mutinous waves
Of blood and bile seek
An erosion of my consciousness.
A cup pressed to my lips
That will not pass.

Shall I speak of strife
To you,
Mistress to all things of strife once born?
Shall I carve a delicate word
Or a whisper
Into your spine?

O mutinous waves
of blood and salt and red, red wine
That seeks and erosion of my conscience,
A cup, now pressed to my lips.
A cup that will not pass.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Variach, in the year 187 MA.