In the world that we despise,
are there times of loss or wonder?
Toiling ever, full of lies,
sick of writhing, going under.
In that bleakness waiting never,
'till no senseless drone became.
Wrath or sunder, thrash or sever,
breaking through with none to claim.
And that weakness sups upon us,
gibbers for our souls do slake.
With a thirst so vile and vicious,
we but shiver in its wake.
Thus all reason burns with malice,
shackled minds do shriek and wail.
It's the endless wrath of solace,
which expects all things to fail.
Our existence springs from chaos,
maelstrom forged and wrongly won.
And when entropy does claim us,
that is all we are: undone.
So the onslaught of tomorrows,
crushes bones of beneath the skies.
And the eons fall like shadows,
in the world that we despise.
