This glass in my hand
Compels the Night-Imps to drown
Themselves like poets.
Quiet as light it happens;
They don’t even sing death-songs.

There aren’t many left.
They refuse to take up space.
At best, a mouthful.
Tonight it’s easy to watch.
Tomorrow, just agony.

I want to save them,
Since they came to save me first.
My hand is shaking.
Is it my insides they want?
Maybe, but there’s only scraps.

One is still breathing-
Hard as an oyster he pulls
A frayed, oily rope.
I think he wants me to hang
All that weight around my neck.

The Imp knows I am
Only a gateway to Hell,
Not the fire itself.
I didn’t ask for this role-
I hurl my glass like magic.

— Cameron Stearnes writes, makes art, and slowly decays in the doomed metropolis of Phoenix Arizona. 

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