Ignite fortune, adrift in a switchblade’s gist
of reason.

Don’t you tire of waiting?
Incessant nights capsized by
failing intellect.

A certain radiance stems from her
red rimmed eyes
and I’d never like it, but
we all inhabit the familiar.

‘Reclaim the lead and leave me,’ she sighs
through her arms.
As if the weakened flame
of fortune
revives through a fresh age.

With a withered disposition
she rants of an ancient god
licking gold
from our fingers,
her unbreakable revelation on the means
that got our end.