A Toil Beneath The Skin
Pulsating walls of veins, a chamber made of flesh,
A blood stained living altar of death and wickedness.
A shapeless, nameless terror. Voiceless whispers feed the
Inner error as crawling waters.
A ghastly silence ? a grinding noise.
Am I alone here? Is this my voice?
Cloaking herds of vermin ? stone cold faces.
Underneath the surface: jet black wastelands.
Stirring in the dark; a toil beneath the skin.
Freezing, cold with poison; a coil of hungry snakes.
The Devil clearly mirrored right before me.
Eyes, just like my own two, see right through me.
A ghastly silence ? no life to find.
Am I alone here, in my mind?
The foul enigma solved, no logic to be found.
A whirling chaos only, whirling and profound.
