The map grows stronger beneath the skin,
Traceries of fire aching dully within marrow,
The stuff on which demons’ hunger is fed,
Blooming traceries that criss-cross along
Lines of the inner defined self, bonding
With the inner worlds of pulsing horror.
That realm of macro sonar signals sounding
In rhythm discordant against its source,
Tiny, miniature micro world with so strong
A series of effects, melange blended together,
The whole more than its separate pieces.