Descend from the solitude,
tell us what you’ve learned
under the great star of tireless light.
Your poetry is rendered useless
and all of the ponderous figures you mumble to,
shivering in dark rooms are long since dead.
You are more worm than man.
Helpless, meager beasts
stumbling over your own beliefs.
Wipe the soul clean,
our days are numbered,
count to yourself.
I’ll bury this letter in earnest,
in hopes that you’ll read it
and know this,
my words are wrought with anguish.
Death is a coward
who cheats at chess.
I found what no one should find.
I can not help but cry.
The disconsolate never had the chance.
My little brother
slipped through my fingers.
This grief will span a hundred lifetimes.
I will wander,
with a devastated heart and softened eyes,
so clear a path.
I will scatter the last pieces of you
in this mournful world,
until the carriage halts
and the ground swells from us both.