What is anguish?

How does it keep its hold on us? Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s what keeps us in this world and yet far away.

But nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

And what can I not bear but this world and what it gave?

And I can name seven of which I could not save.

When I, alas, I did not give a drop of the blood that was spilled.

No, my mother did.

My beloved cast my fears into the reality of common existence,

And who is here?

Who is here but I?

And what keeps us together as we fall apart?

Oh, I ought to be Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel,

Who departs from here and all along stays anchored in his heart,

Oh, yes, I have fallen apart.

I am spent,

I have faced creation, and welcomed its rival.

I have stayed the course, except when I held to survival.

Come here.

Rather, go away.

I cannot create something that will not too see its day,

I cannot create life from a womb,

Or face my mother’s tomb,

I must look down below and make room.

For you are not near.

And I cannot spark your heart into mine own ear.

If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.

I will destroy them, and myself, and my cause.

Only the paleness will serve your applause.

There will be no soul come out of rest to mend it.

For life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.