O Saturn, the God of Sordid Love,
in whom and whose cold the Sun
is flipped, devoured, extinguished,
you cannot help it—you must feed
and feast to bring your not-to-be—
and you labor to dig the abyss deep
and deeper still—into eyeless voids
that no longer knows what’s good
and what is not—the amoral moralist
outside the law of love, you, the hoarder
of the skulls and bones and all dead souls,
those oxymorons of the hollowed selves,
you are the chosen Deity, the chosen Ghost
of the powers that be, who spell souls as slaves