Could there be beauty in catastrophe? In the ruptures of my tender skin,
In the shattering of my porcelain heart,
In my fumbling through confounding smoke,
In the dreary hermitage that is my mind
and the wordless implosions of my soul?
For after each lament,
Before the wounds clot and I can part the curtains,
I remember that a function of light
is to reveal what was sculpted in its absence,
In the maligned shadows of the night,
where only stardust glows
and brokenness knows no end.