World of Whispers

This is forced up from the world of whispers

Where terror and negation are out on an endless

Prowl.

I'm just attempting to summon the memory of

Pre-epidemic

Existence while nursing bruised ideals, which combat

Human

Shortcomings.

We are all transitional creatures

Who destroy ourselves in slow motion.

In our terror and in our ignorance we do the very

Things

Which aggravate the calamity and increase the death

Rate.

Each fate is no more than a refrain

Fluttering around a few bloodstains.

The interval seperating you from your corpse

Is a small sticky wound.

And nothing can keep you from bleeding

Ideas themselves turn red and encroach upon us

Like tumors in a philosophiocal stupor.

We are merely puppets stuffed with red junk

The blood's inferno drowns the soul out

Life is that which decomposes

At every moment with every movement

We are heretics of existence

Banished to the community of the living

Whose sole virtue is to wait gasping

For something, for anything

For that which is not death.