The beating, the shaking
The thing carved in bones
The thing that washed up

And brings plague to your home
The burning, the rusted
The blower of horns

The porcelain girl who must burden its scorn
The thing that sleeps and moans in the choir
The thing that awakens when the sun is devoured
It's hate and it's sorrow, its smile bleeds when it cracks
This is the martyr, the modern grotesque