Chaos of the Reaper's Art

We lie defined

by wayward covenants

and lungs writhing beneath the stone

heaviness of purely petrifying tides.

Morning time, she and I will atone

—Sea’s bitter revenants,

salt mummified.

Carelessness bears

lost sailors to the deep.

I chased her there, nursing envy

for the Lotus Eater’s anodyne affairs.

Oh, how she leapt, drowned by poisoned dreams.

The clement sky now weeps

at our despair.

Look at these hearts

aching still to the thrum

and rhythm of disappointment—

severed strings, old lovers’ longing cleaved apart.

Name our wreckage for famed battlements.

In death, chaos becomes

the Reaper’s art.