in these decaying minds, these blackened, blanched lungs, these melting bones of apathy? The marrow sings a song of dislocation as it spills from the inner core back to the dust and ash of a yawning maggot grave. Slurped inside the underbelly where the fatalistic urges shriek in pacifistic terror, wrapped up in spiked wool of purgatory chains. This filth does not wash off. This stink does not come clean. No flood, no fire, no Revelation. No Buddha Tree here to bow beneath. No cross to hang up high from. This vapid, vacuous, empty void is where dreams come to die‌ hard. Welcome to the nightmare symphony. Welcome to collapsed entropy. Welcome to the weeping fields. Welcome to the playground of the damned.
Crack the Spine - Issue 149
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