I could have embraced the sonorous whispers’ allure,
Bartering my fragmented shell as a sacrifice, become
A bell that unceasingly tolls, a harp that’s as piercing as tragic,
An elongated, ominous trumpet wrenching the skies afar.
Yet, your presence quashed my intentions.
I could have unleashed my tainted blood and pus,
Coursing through every pulsating artery, morphing into a
Deluge of swirling pigments like a mural, flooding with fury;
Or into a prayer born from a colossal prodigious terror,
A contorted malice intertwining in self-consistency,
In which the weapon is one’s very own self.
Yet, your presence spared me from such a fate.
I could have dissolved completely amidst ceaseless obsidian.
Whether from pure awe of your might or attachment,
I, too, knows no true answer —
Only in that fleeting moment, the fulgor of yours
Spiked razor-sharp, its faint oscillations serrated
Against my vulnerable neck in no time.
Yet in the thin wound you bestowed upon me,
Resides a pain so pure and yet, so transparent.
— From The Silver of Nihil, No. 13
