The following is from a torn verse, the page burnt at the edges and nearly all gone.

Ink drips like black rain—

pages hum with aching thirst,

eyes devour the dark.

Tongue dipped in gold flame,

she sips secrets from the void—

truth burns sweet and sharp.

Veins run with old names,

the ichor sings through her bones—

madness wears a crown.

Ash on her tongue now—

she chewed the bones of silence,

starving for a name.

Moonlight wrote secrets

on the backs of falling leaves;

none stayed long enough.

She tore through the stars,

pages inked in dying light,

questions fed the void.

A voice in the dust—

“To know is to lose again.”

She drank anyway.