Space

Beacon eyes, lighting a way to shepard us safely, though

intentions can be illusive—a catalyst for widening the gap between us.

Can a thermal scan pinpoint out pressure points? You’ve become Charon,

bitter and cold in your lonely citadel, an Eden for a self harmer.

In a way, the invasion is already over; the newer heart a paragon

of resilience. A renegade spirit hides inside like a mass of inert chaos,

like a cause without an effect. You pull away, hope reaper in

overdrive to cluster despair on these wavelengths—doom collector.