word games

The reallinging of the Kosmos (or setting chaos back a step)

Purification of putrefaction, pestilence and pain,
Wading into the abyss, more slowly now, in vain.
The sucking maw pulls quickly,
the bleeding heart wastes sickly,
A weakened will attempts to wash the stain.

The voice, the words, are tempered only by their fear,
A silence, fresh, perhaps too much to hear.
And solitude hides the core,
whose pleasure would adore,
Race with abandon to the place so dear.

Regret, the word that sours only on the tongue
A look cast back, and then the song unsung.
Lamenting serves no use,
for a pairing so obtuse.
The scales of justice in the balance now are hung.