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In the dogmatas of the Church, the defilement of purity is above all sacrosanct.

The red petals floating in the wind were not petals at all.

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To sacrifice.

To never surrender.

A poem about the cursed poets, burdened by their art.

Take a breath and breathe. There, where the oxygen is less. Find your liberation.

Ancient spirit, how many stories are there to your name?

Lost and cold, you linger there, safe, safe away.

Gates, the likes of which man may hope not construct, hold little reason to bear patience for the hesitant.