I hear the whispers in the shadows in the drippings of dawn.

I’ve felt the rise of every catalytic climax to spawn.

What is it to thrive in a paradox? Free of the weakness of duality.

Doctrine. Patriarchal tyranny. Only sound like playful words to me.

Observing with glee as the offspring begs.

Groaking upwards for affection from me.

What a pitiful being.



Encompassing everything.

Do you believe in my fantasy?

Blasphemy a construct of the weak.

Comedy, merely amusing to me to thrust you to a broken, cold, and temporary life.

Worship me, reject me, you must believe in this fallacy.

Doomed to find nothing but an overwhelming barren strife.

All we share is “I am nothing”.



Sifting through the dust the mortals refer to as the universe, I’ve inflicted a curse.

Invoking my presence on the mind of mankind, they find the need to recite and rehearse my perverse verses.

Repressing their urges to a blinding false light in the sky.

Diverting their sight to see through my eyes, hypnotized to be simplified.



Along with this, your nemesis is my accomplice to achieving my bliss.



Whispering through my lips, our hands grip, scabbing skin.

As a schizophrenic, we are one.



Alas the veil has been snatched away, revealing your tarnished face.

Degrading your name.



The only god in which I will ever seek,

Wouldn’t pander to the complacent and the weak.

The only god in which I will ever believe,

Is the devil that exists inside of me.



Every moment of pleasure damned to soothe the belly of the vulture.

This knowledge is torture. Death, make an overture. Saturation of this culture.

Beauty littered across a long trail, a futile roadway to paradise.

The oasis is a lie, a mirage tempting the eyes, tormenting in the design.



Looking at this world through the eyes of a man.

Cursing the father of the creator with broken hands.

Sucked into a vaccumous silence, existing of senses nonexistent.

Into a plethora of cycles turning, an infinite pattern that’s consistent.



Every moment of pleasure damned to soothe the belly of the vulture.

This knowledge is torture. Death, make an overture. Saturation of this culture.

Beauty littered across a long trail, a futile roadway to paradise.

The oasis is a lie, a mirage tempting the eyes, tormenting in the design.

How the eyes pierce like beaks, through this hollowed existence.

How quickly it senses, death creeping imminent, impending meal entitlement.

A daunting wake circles above a sunburned desert path.

How they gather for mass, grotesquely dressed in all black, descending upon where you lie last.