I am formed in the crucible of the Night. My substance owed to lingering shadows that are no longer needed. A core of solitude, well tempered in a forge of self-contempt then cooled in a bucket of loneliness. A pestle grinds all of it into granules of pitiful spite. I then owe my shape to the crucible; that Crucible of Night. It is white and not much used. The shaper of my form. Slender necked and hollow based. It stands: ephemeral, forlorn. I am crushed into it; smaller and yet smaller still. I owe everything to the keeper of myself: The breaking down, the scattering. The failing mental health. I am in the Crucible, as it is in me. Churning out its darkness at every oppurtunity.
Reason for writing:
I realise what it is to be a creature of thinking and integrity, thus
I admit to the culpability of the soul as a vessel for guilt and anger. Although
I realise there still exist many beautiful things in the world, right now
I would prefer not to acknowledge their existence... Or
rather I would remain anonymous of their acknowledgement of me.....
Birth sign: Not entered
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