Ragged sky at twilight, raw-edged angles of twigs,
An evergreen now-grey ivy leaf scrapes my sight
And all is obtuse, not cohesive, this disembodied day
In winter, no art of refinement, a landscape unfit
For the painter’s brush. But yet, the torn sky
Is bleeding tonelessly, hue of a cold sea frozen
As relentless night’s unrested mind procures
The objects of observation, swallows all
With the same appetite for remorseless oblivion.
And where is the merciful one now?