Name Them Yet Build No Monument

Embracing the virtues of churning visions
Enduring shadows of human folly
Show me the way, struggler
The swirling black void of your origin

Obfuscated from the present
A limp grasp on sapience
Dripping with sickness
Sanguineous thickness
My need to be absorbed

This filling of the lungs
The urge to let slip the burden of being
To ravage the mind’s weir
And numb the pain of knowing

Boreholes in the flesh
Cease the pain of the burden of being
Oblation to a bacchic lord
In blessed poison, devour me

Face down in the mire
Seeking its shallow depths
Just one more drink
From the fane of fallen men before

Beautiful broken gears
These shells of humanity
Condemned to feed the machine
Spines broken for another

This place of injury and error
The farming of the frail
Still cursed by the skulking malaise
I only taste freedom in times of loss