Alchemisland

Your every sentence commences with an ‘or’ commensurate with no

I feel nothing like a finger blacked by snow

Why ask? It’s a no, just go and later apologise

Your problems a minimised and mine magnified under trial

I once provoked in you fine feeling, blood tinged with wine of evening, now I rouse bile

Óir on your ringfinger, oil to your fire, my very existence provokes your ire

Your rages are long burning, atmosphere destroying tyre pyres

Tirelessly enfiring, entirely endless, violently my Empress