The motions of later compared to now,
Wayward firing lines pulse in rhythm
Without proper tempo kept, slithering,
Dry gains made consecutively, distracting.
Clicks in every movement, air escaping,
Supposedly, from within, the evil sleeps,
Awaking now and again to bother us
With thoughts of illimitable horror;
Humdrum terror manifest now, more than ever.
Pulse, pulse, fire and lancing sting,
Why, it makes the material maudlin,
So fruitless, for what value holds
When the pain is so shocking, so cold?
We roam amidst waves of wild agony.