The conqueror will hold this place
Born of darkness
And the death of the countless
Becoming our god
Exploring the Human Condition Through Writing
The conqueror will hold this place
Born of darkness
And the death of the countless
Becoming our god
Feel that ancient terror
Creep across your skin
Stifle your voice
And chill your bones
This is a shrine
To the best intentions
The great redesign
For which we are the indemnitee
I watched the robin nest
As I entered the den
Of the lions
I wish them well
They wish to take my life
Bubbling miasma in the void
From which I sprung forth
To grasp at the promise of existence
To my lament
The new abnormal
An acceptable aberration
The construct’s inflammation
A bold conflagration
Chasing those fireflies
Lights that flicker in the dark
Guiding you home
To the abyss
When the lies never stop
When revolution becomes the puppet of the top
When your promised future is just lies and slop
We are left with not but ashes