She cries without consolation,
Her hunger and her thirst
Are as dark stars,
As fit for kings,
Of definitive forms,
The conjuring of vast gases from nebulae;
My motion sickness concurs,
She is the medicinal equivalent of death.
And laughs at sparrows,
Derides an infant’s gaze,
Contorts the truth and trumpets
Murkwood’s mire and nostalgic breath.