Still birth machine

...And she speaks to me,

Echoes shatter the subconscious.

Through veiled eyes, visions of life giving images,

Fields of the dead, rotting in the presence of the divine.

Mind entwined, suffer to bear scars of the truth.

As I arise, fragments of purpose clarify,

Needs to erase his whores, his lies.

Find my fists wrapped tightly around the neck of endless beauty,

My pride shall survive at the tips of strained fingers,

Stangling the expendable.

Her grasp upon my arm goes limp, life from her iris fades,

She insists to remove them.

From the face, crimson release, exalt the pressures of your worth.

Hail the fall, artificial messiah,

Knives communicate the delicacy of your nerves, the flesh understands.

Through binds of leather and fault of faith, intestinal outpour.

Carved at the waist, draining profusely, on down her thighs,

To merge with the earth of her tomb.

Nurture the cycle, feed on the weak, feeding on life.

Echoes shatter the subconscious,

And again and again...She speaks to me.