Mute

I am a broken set of characters.

A lentient lexicon.

I live for alliterations, yet alliterations do not live for me.

A penalty of words.

Like winning in a grand amphitheatre for a pyrrhic victory against yourself.

A dischordance of stanzas.

Such living on a porcelain spine bound by the fray of short circuits and instability is surely uncertain.

A sanguinary evisceration of thanatos.

When streams become rivers and tears become crimson.

An ashen autumn in an eschatological world.