The sting of severance sticks in the gut
Shadow in twain of its source.
Her caustic fingers carve out the earth,
Desperate to gouge out its trough.
Each sapling of hope that bends to light,
Draws thorns and brambles and knots.
Creepers and barbs encircle her throat,
Twists up to a crest of deep rot.
A mind overwrought with ruin is soil,
For the weeds of the Well and the Waste.
Darkwards she struggles. Thoughts wispish grey.
Extinguished, Diminished and Thin
Abandoned by life, slips into death
And death welcomes her in.
Weeds become sinew, thorns a spine.
The crest displaced to a crown.
Legs darkest crystal, arms thickest vine,
Shades from the Well as its gown.
Regret distilled to a poultice of hate
Applied to wounds once abhorred.
It heals, and now this distortion must wait,
For a patron to call the Dark Lord.