The Gift 

I have fallen into the pit of my own desires. Beneath a low, suffocating sky, shadows has fled. Days crawl past like wounded beasts, nights gape with ravenous maelstrom . I ask nothing of the world but permission to inhale my glory, let it consume me like grey smoke devouring the forest .

Yet, amidst the ash, a flame endure — my old friends. They reach without calculation, recognize me in bliss, hold me when all else has turned to naught. Let them be seen; their gestures preserve as remembrance of the human in me.

The others — masked in kindness, parasites gnawing at my misfortune, voices slick with empathy only to sharpen judgment — I offer nothing but this: let them burn, let them rot, let them hollow in their own designs.

I have no mask left. No smile. No concession to their wretched curiosity. leave me to my darkness, and let me have the one gift I crave: war.