Unhuman nonbeings buried deep in the throes
Of unsharpened wisdom
Forages refurbishing the newly renovated dark age
A plague that creeps up below us
Aphotic in nature
We gasp for its poisoned stench
Yet it carries the key to the door
To the apocalypse
Parched of energy, pacified by fuel
Irony; how a planet is rejuvenated by its own disease
Held captive by an axis of evil
Figures held is high esteem
Dancing around a cauldron filling with oil
Living corpses arise
Awakened by the sound of wretched chanting
Of witches with scorched faces
Cauldrons still bubbling
While their hopes of poisoning these resting cadavers increase
Irony is running on the liquids that poison us.