Pulp from pipes, gross, groggy
breaks the silent midnight hour.
It proves itself a miracle
that never blessed anyone else.
Obscured skies fall, scrub it down,
to depths that don't resurface.
It's slime, tinkles, it creeps and crawls,
for hope but to cascade; it stalls.
It never stops; it's always stopped.
Face eternity underground, or rather:
its darkness doesn't call. Oh no:
it's darkness all alone; it's begging.
You eat; your teeth are made for meat.
You kill; you stalk till prey is still.
You're living, dying, underground.
You scream just so you hear the sound.
You breathe or consciousness you leave.
You're crying, prophesying: you die.
You're as soft as a sigh outside.
But wrecked, crooked; how you pry.
Within skin sin shines red to din,
crash, clutter all of light, creating
the sun of night worshiped in death,
the son of nothingness with no breath.
We are wicked; we're unholy; we're unspeakably
far from heaven. We're not demons; only human.
We are darkness, animals, terror itself. We
exist. We breathe; we live; we die; we bleed.
We're sanity, all planes and mental states,
geometry destroyed. We're creatures - beings.
How we cross all dimensions like crossing a field,
no measure of wrongness enough cause to yield.
How cross we all are at each one like our own;
how dry our eyes in hunting people down.
We cross our hearts to never let you in,
hope not to die and let the game begin.