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Name Them Yet Build No Monument
by
Hath
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Embracing the virtues of churning visions Enduring shadows of human folly Show me the way, struggler The swirling black void of your origin Obfuscated from the present A limp grasp on sapience Dripping with sickness Sanguineous thickness My need to be absorbed This filling of the lungs The urge to let slip the burden of being To ravage the mind's weir And numb the pain of knowing Boreholes in the flesh Cease the pain of the burden of being Oblation to a Bacchic lord In blessed poison, devour me Face down in the mire Seeking its shallow depths Just one more drink From the fane of fallen men before Beautiful broken gears These shells of humanity Condemned to feed the machine Spines broken for another This place of injury and error The farming of the frail Still cursed by the skulking malaise I only taste freedom in times of loss
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