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.