Yet and yet again, 

By all the names of god that sit gently on my lips
Yet ravage my tongue,
I return to this place;
This false grace I grant myself,
Fallen jigsaw to the floor,
Bowing before a great blade.
More tomb than sanctuary two thirds of a year,
One learns to trust only those many-legged insect instincts,
And starset desires.
 
An autophage eternally.