Hands quake in ceaseless vibration in view of all that was and all that will be. 
Crystalline in it's resplendence. Repugnant in it's ugliness.
The dichotomy of all that is lush and rotten.
Tincture of lament, burden of empathy.
We weep in guilt. 
Thy coven, denied. Thy vessel, deserted. 
___________________________________
I've made it months, even years, in solitude's embrace
but Nothing has shown me what I cannot create.
Stuck on [bad word] of mortality,
a line without a flaw.
I can never bring the life back to his withered breast,
dead at 18 years, now my head's a [bad word] mess.
Everyone is waiting for the end of the line.
Immutable [bad word] There is nothing that can take what is dead
There is nothing that can take what is dead and make it green
There is nothing that can take what is dead and convince it to grow
Vessel is deserted (dirt)
Capillaries dry (holds)
the world soldiers onward (no)
the line is absolute (sway)
Lament's only verdict (over)
the line is absolute (me)
No sway over me.