The Dissident’s Lexicon

Forgive me
for giving you
a language so languid;

asleep and unrecognizable,
a pile of “cheap, unrefined babble.”

I am the grammar—
the iteration of the darkest
matters—I am the planner

transplanting hazard
after obliteration’s scattered you.

My damage is collateral—
lick my entropy, burn your tongue;
scorch-in my words. Become.