Featured in the Summer '04 issue of Poetry in Emotion .

What measure of a free choice
may ever be afforded of despair,
or profits gleaned from mad sufferage
I ask you here

Crucified of my personal convictions,
the inflection of swollen sorrow
levies it's toll in moral marrow
seeping through a sweeter stigmata
What love grows in hope's barrow mound,
with bruised velvet of a nightshade abounding;
a ward to defy robbers of decayed constitutions,
I ask you now

Likening to an awkward Phoenix
pissing sparks on it's ancestral ashes
my burden of rebirth is the elder ideal
in taking flight from Sin's ambrosiac meal*
Sidenote: Sin was originally the Babylonian God of the Moon