The silence is fleeting
The surface, shimmering, bubbling
My dreaming birthplace of thought
Corrupted, fetid, by a token god
The melodrama drips from these walls
Excess excised through exercises
From he who spoke in tongues
Shrouded in privilege, but never discomfort
The embodiment of tedium
Raping our laughter to dreariness
But onward we bow to this blood-tinged altar
Desperate wretches thirsting blinding water
Drinking narrow sights that dilate to the void
Draining warm blood from open veins
And as my muscles melt back through the crevices
Succumbed to fleet through that surface
I sink through the objectiveness
To holster a living meaningless
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