[Ex Tempore XXXV]
It is a hollow world we live in,
a hundred million cries reverberate
and shudder the mirrored walls of the city.
Death is no reverent thing here;
it is cold, heartless and rapacious.
It takes from us, with silent hands,
all the light in our lives,
and leaves us cracked and crumbled
and spiteful of the ostentatious motions of life.
Love is the most impossible of pursuits:
the chase enervating,
the loss end-closed.
And what life and love we may have...
the line we walk is precariously taut.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
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