dormiveglia, levelling up to be insomnia, marking
another trusted ally pulling a Brutus, enslaving us to the
reigning silence threatened only by breaths half drawn,
killing the descendants of what were once dreams, holding
night-watches for the pyres of promises from 3 AM conversations;
emphasizing only the might of the night swallowing those blazes,
so our self loathe doesn’t come visiting, grave robbing the carcasses of
slain memories rotting away with time, finding home in this dark abyss, the night.