Author’s Note: The poem was inspired by the unending struggle of the world and its continuous demand in our blood, where we must keep striving to stay afloat. In the last part of the poem, I demonstrated how at that point I was okay with much the world has to offer me, and was willing to not keep spending my blood and sweat as the price for survival in this world.

—NCS

CW: None.

The night is fractured. Glimmers of some
goblins trick the wrinkles

of the dark into a depthless eye-socket
of a weeping owl. I stand,

witnessing the stains of the rain as it pulls
a blindfold over my gaze.

In what way do I uplift the leftovers of
these spirits clogging the

grave’s throat without mocking the toothless
mouth of the earth that

swallows without chewing? I pull forth what’s
been forgotten & paint it white

with a ghost powder. That way, it vowels into
limbo without slamming the

lips of the universe. A night ago, the sky was
a carnivore, the lips of May

peeled into redness. It was halfway into
the night, when crows

began to feast on poisonous flesh. The threat
rose into a thick smoke.

I dragged my feet through the night. A saunter
through my mother’s garden

cleared off the deep cloud & its tripwires. Tonight,
the falcon calls for a feast

but the moths are cold for a reason. We can’t keep
wearing down the jovial atmosphere

to please the grave’s gluttony. The night: ravenous,
the night: hungry, but we owe it nothing.