The chalice tilts, for light cannot stay,
The absence of pulse reveals the hidden way.
It's an orchard ripening without a sun,
For all of this has come before, the same tapestries are spun.
And so I drank the dark the roots have never known,
As the warmth was fleeting, I sought in bone.
Mirrors cannot find me and shadows dart,
To stitch dead silk around the heart.
Eternal night outlives the art.