Dressed in sadness.
Depressed to madness.
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Febrile, bereft power to bequeath to stand, to breathe.
Moira appears, macabre hag
preens her wares.
“See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your failures
onto a visible page.
Luminate new meaning? New lamps for old.”
She cackles, like
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
marked as Hell
meta-cast into Helvetica.
All that ashen sorrow,