This self-imposed exile
From you ethereal light
Is worse than I even imagined,
As though the chill of Niflheim
Has frozen my very soul,
Leaving me dead and numb,
Struggling to feel,
Fighting to do more than exist.
At this point I don’t know
If this is purification or asceticism,
But I’m no better off
Than I was a week ago.
Stripping your existence
From my everyday
Is a fate worse than Prometheus
Strapped to the rock,
Feasted upon for eternity,
But for me there is no healing,
No silver lining,
There is only the darkness of abandon,
The sightlessness sans your radiance,
The emptiness without your embrace,
And the desert absent your tears.
And now I know that I cannot fear death,
Because I’m here already:
A walking corpse.