Somewhere near our journey’s end, we find ourselves adrift.
No bearing on our compasses, we’ve entered a desert rift.
Our horses are starved, falling one by one.
We are soon sure to follow, until there are none.
The madness of the desert wastes are taking hold.
I write this down in hopes that someday my story is told.
My instinct is to survive, to make it through.
I cannot be blamed for what I’m about to do.
As the weakest die.
The vultures circle in the sky.
I reach down for my knife.
Time to see what’s inside.
At first the others try to stop me, they think me cruel.
But soon I see all their mouths water, with hungry drool.
I offer them a taste, of human flesh.
There is nothing better, than when it’s fresh.
As the weakest die.
The vultures circle in the sky.
I reach down for my knife.
Time to see what’s inside.
He’s lost a lot of blood.
It mixes with the sand and turns into mud.
I was eating the dead to survive.
But they taste better when they’re alive.
My companions try to kill me, to end my spree.
I in turn liberate them with my knife, to set them free.
I am possessed by the taste of man flesh.
A cut of this one’s thigh, with a side of that one’s breast.
As the weakest die.
The vultures circle in the sky.
I reach down for my knife.
Time to see what’s inside.
He’s lost a lot of blood.
It mixes with the sand and turns into mud.
I was eating the dead to survive.
But they taste better when they’re alive.
I must silence the hunger.
I cannot stand it any longer.
Savage instinct. The will to survive.
I do what I must. And I must thrive.
In the grips of death. I see clear now, my curse.
This endless desert, my cannibalistic hearse.
Bone. Blood. Sand. Mud.
As our story comes to an end, I must atone.
No more meat to eat, only my own.
On my own femur, my blade I hone.
As I start to die.
The vultures descend from the sky.
Now they peck out my eyes.
Oh what have I done with this life.
Feasting on flesh to survive.
Eating my fellow man alive.
Now into the desert I imbibe.
