Less you see, all the more will be.
Ghosts from entry fires fill your holes.
Growing there, faintest traces of
Ambition in their slitted eyes.
Grim abandon, no unliving wills,
Nor the dead, nor lives of randomness.
In your veins, it lies, smells of sacrifice
And cancerous, stinking bowels.
Overrun with roots, believe when you do not.
Scum tech your head cannot fathom.
Revel there, wallowing in turds
Of your likeness with rolling eyes.
Voice whispers to you--to your body, blue,
Suspended in razor wire:
“Stage a suicide, make a death your bride,
Fill yourself with false remorse.”
all rights reserved