The purple, swollen faced infant
Suckling at the teat of calamity
Nurture the misbegotten, sustenance of the malformed
No crucifix adorn these walls
No laughter resounds within these walls
Where wounds are planted, blood will follow
Harvest the eradication of tomorrow and all rejoice...
The Cricket's Opus reaches crescendo
Feverish gasps of consumption
I should be feeling something, come up empty
Once again
No crucifix adorn these walls
I long to stab the memories, to bathe in their lifesblood
To bask in the Holy truth I no longer live
AND THANK THE FUCKING DEVIL
FOR MAKING ALL OF THIS POSSIBLE
The sighing dead surround me
Impatiently adverting their eyes
Nervously waiting for me to join them, to lead them
To bestow upon them some sense of purpose
Long lost to me
Sometimes I feel as if I am on the verge of clawing through
Then the sun ruins everything
If God has not yet forsaken us, he will now
Long lost to me
Hallow Human Husks Bob in the Ashen Sea
Sacred pulsating altar of the Great Deformity