We yet live.
Sympathy, a hug.
Commiseration of our
Continued existence.

I once sobbed to you
Of radiance muted.
Do you remember, how the
Dirt and blood stained
Us both under the
False light, how our fingers
Plunged into wet decay.

Hands clasping.
Stoicism and light.
Did shame grow greater
Or lose ground.
Wrongness, I said.
And then felt it,
As your burning image
Etched into my mind.

Your starry throne
Plucked from the heavens
And then shattered,
As hundreds of
Thousands of
Would-be constellations
Swallowed by the Dark.
Collective sigh.

But not for all.
Not for three distant
Worlds, their essences
Snuffed in passing.
Not for family, eyes
Cast as so many daggers.
Not for us, vines
Laden with rotting
Secrets.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Phaestian, in the year 861 AF.