• Bathing with a sponge
    In the blood of your brothers,
    Taking comfort in the pillow
    With the bones of your mother.
    Can the darkness or the madness
    Of my voices disappear
    They tell me to kill you slowly
    Will it take a month or a year?
    The intensity of the slaughter
    Relish the blood I spill
    "Is it done? Is the prophecy fulfilled?"
    Even the voices in my head tremble
    With fearful trepidation,
    All for what they saw in my little lair
    My unnamed abominations.