Of all the things I might find disappointment in, I
admit to finding the greatest dissatisfaction within
(and at) myself.
Too many are the nights when the candle burns beside
my bed til dawn, too many the nights when I fear
to welcome the simple arms of sleep.
There are days when I startle at the vision of blood
welling swift, crimson against ragged-edged bone, from
the gap in my hand.
Worse still, the days my eyes behold five fingers,
innocently whole, curved about the parchment's edge.
Sometimes, one of them bears a ghost of gold.
And that is the very worst of all.