Momus

I did this to myself 
Just like each time before 
When I grew tired of the bitterness of shadows 
And lusted after the twinkling stars. 
When I ignored the shrieking reluctance within 
To reach instead for cold fire 
That, in passionate fugue, withers all; 
Like the vine I might have nurtured 
Now desiccated and bristling with thorns 
Coiling around my neck like a sobering noose 
Admonishing the failure of my purpose. 
My hands clawing at my chest in desperation 
Digging for the heart that might offer respite 
Finding only the shadows I thought abandoned 
And the ashes of all I had offered the flame. 

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