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
Abort it
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 d**h your bride
Fill yourself with false remorse.”
Abort it
Doom
Doomed people