Some things keep
And some don’t
And some you’ll have to let go
Often without warning and against your will
A meteing out of some kind of fate
If only cruel
Because it's wickedness would imply a purpose
Alas! It is merely indifferent, purposeless
Without intent
A nonsensical void
And it is from that
That you will have to recover
Because evil at its best is indifferent
Unmoved
Its terror brightest and unphased in its apathy
It is from that void that superstition and religion spring forth
A salve or shield against the cold
A dampening in the soul
In those frigid chasms a certain type of flower blooms
Seductive and treacherous
Its bulbs beckoning, swollen with beauty
Full of brambles and thorns
Of gnarled vines and tangles
I now see that
Within the flowers of evil, I too
Am lost