This is forced up from the world of whispers
Where terror and negation are out on an endless
Prowl.
I'm just attempting to summon the memory of
Pre-epidemic
Existence while nursing bruised ideals, which combat
Human
Shortcomings.
We are all transitional creatures
Who destroy ourselves in slow motion.
In our terror and in our ignorance we do the very
Things
Which aggravate the calamity and increase the death
Rate.
Each fate is no more than a refrain
Fluttering around a few bloodstains.
The interval seperating you from your corpse
Is a small sticky wound.
And nothing can keep you from bleeding
Ideas themselves turn red and encroach upon us
Like tumors in a philosophiocal stupor.
We are merely puppets stuffed with red junk
The blood's inferno drowns the soul out
Life is that which decomposes
At every moment with every movement
We are heretics of existence
Banished to the community of the living
Whose sole virtue is to wait gasping
For something, for anything
For that which is not death.
