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The flesh writhes beneath the unseen eye


A pale star gnaws at the edges of a forgotten order

No savior wanders the wastelands of broken will


Only the shriek of time devouring its spawn

The architect of its barren exodus


Spiraling through the dust of extinguished purpose

Every gesture is a mockery of its own genesis


Every word is a tombstone planted in sterile soil

The bones of the world are stitched into a theater of decay

This existence is a fevered mirage trembling in poisoned breath

No deliverance rises from the rubble of lost resolve


Nothing remains but the cold certainty of self-erasure