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