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