I Don't Think Goodness Is

For Things At A Common Destination There Is A Common Path. Not Always Easy To See. But There.

What Deity In The Realms Of Dementia, What Rabid God Decocted Out Of The Smoking Lobes Of Hydrophobia Could Have Devised A Keeping Place For Souls So Poor As Is This Flesh. This Mawky Worm-bent Tabernacle.

She Was Gone And The Coldness Of It Was Her Final Gift.

The World To Come Must Be Composed Of What Is Past. No Other Material Is At Hand.

It's The Tide. It's The Dismal Tide. It's Not The One Thing.