Pythein

That ringing haze in my head, one place where nothing bred;

Desolation in the farm of the dead, quenched by something dull and red;

Tangling in my legs while I run, tearing through my skin, a little pleasure a little burn;

Holding tight onto the dangling skin, the torn limbs, the broken joint, galloping endlessly to where life aroint;

A place where the phantasms at rampart, bribing with blood and flesh my vanguard;

They are the vicissitudes of this visage, the lore of a glorious forage;

Enshrined within this epitaph are those undead dreams, raising from their graves they chew through the living seams;

Infect the sentience render a philandering bereavement, the joy, the felicity, a farce of my embalmment;

The virulence of the cloying amour, no ears for that putrid clamour;

Drag that torn limb over the barbed fate, no more soul left to claudicate;

Hack me again till I smile, a sheared skin was never servile;

Like juvenility playing in splashes, my frivolity livens in whip lashes;

And then the blood bespattering, colours of a monolithic simpering;

To rot for ever they lie, be born for end is nigh…