Myself is not a thing to love at all.
The voices in the void, I hear them all.
Each grinding scream and arid, feral call.
They stream across my heart, a dire pall.
At every side, a cold, unfeeling wall.
The ages scour dreams and slowly crawl.
The world is wide, and I am very small.
My stars are pitch, and smoke, as heavens fall.
Dry tears within the eyes, concealing gall.
A mind of blight at every stair and hall.
A battered hope, a slowly dying ball.
Myself is not a thing to love at all.