Momus

I did this to myself 

Just like each time before 

When I grew tired of the bitterness of shadows 

And lusted after the twinkling stars. 

When I ignored the shrieking reluctance within 

To reach instead for cold fire 

That, in passionate fugue, withers all; 

Like the vine I might have nurtured 

Now desiccated and bristling with thorns 

Coiling around my neck like a sobering noose 

Admonishing the failure of my purpose. 

My hands clawing at my chest in desperation 

Digging for the heart that might offer respite 

Finding only the shadows I thought abandoned 

And the ashes of all I had offered the flame.