Aftermath Poem by Narieth Elin

How it is that life so fragile,
Kindled, gone off; alleviated,
All in this alacritous duality...
Endured at last by shards of sense.

I've let this crevice run neglected,
Nescient, I've fueled it whole,
Let it breathe by its own measure,
Unaware its glaring flair.

As was allowed, so shall be scoured,
Aware now of my misconseption,
Can't help surmize, but now alone,
As bright I am, I yearn deception.

I'd rather fall a thousand stairs,
Than settle with what is below,
I'd rather die from bleeding cuts,
Than be presereved in spotless box.

I might have found my own intent,
Even though it sways unstable,
I'll find the words to pin it stout,
For long as I am clear, not bent.