The sky is a scab that refuses to heal,
Leaking a void that is heavy and real.
The sun was a lie that the ancestors told,
Before the marrow in spirit turned cold.
I hear the wet snap of a leathery wing,
The anthem of static the shadowed ones sing.
They don’t want my soul; it’s a shriveled-up husk,
They want the last twitch of my nerves in the dusk.
There is no more "later," there is no more "light,"
Just the teeth of the cosmos beginning to bite.
I claw at the air until fingernails peel,
But the dark isn't gas....it is cold, rusted steel.
A choir of whispers is drowning the room,
The geometry shifts in this cathedral of gloom.
The floor is a mouth and the walls are a throat,
And I am the drowning man, missing the boat.
My name is a sound that I’ve started to lose,
Filtered through filth and the smell of the bruise.
The demons aren't coming from pits in the floor,
They’re spilling from cracks in my ribcage’s door.
I scream, but the echo is swallowed by grease,
There is no redemption, there is no release.
The vacuum is hungry, the vacuum is wide,
With nowhere for sanity’s carcass to hide.
The icons are melting, the altars are black,
The universe shudders and starts to retract.
Hope is a poison that burns in the vein,
A cruel little joke in a kingdom of pain.
Black bile is rising to fill up my eyes,
Mapping the terrain where the last mercy dies.
I reach for a hand and I find only bone,
A harvest of silence I’ve planted alone.
The clock has stopped ticking; the gears have gone soft,
While something with eyes watches me from the loft.
It feeds on the panic, the salt, and the dread,
A parasite nesting inside of the dead.
Overwhelmed, hollowed, and erased from the script,
Into the throat of the nothingness slipped.
No heaven is watching, no hell is prepared,
Just the dark and the fact that I’m finally scared.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 6:37 PM UTC
The sky is a scab that refuses to heal,
Leaking a void that is heavy and real.
The sun was a lie that the ancestors told,
Before the marrow in spirit turned cold.
I hear the wet snap of a leathery wing,
The anthem of static the shadowed ones sing.
They don’t want my soul; it’s a shriveled-up husk,
They want the last twitch of my nerves in the dusk.
There is no more "later," there is no more "light,"
Just the teeth of the cosmos beginning to bite.
I claw at the air until fingernails peel,
But the dark isn't gas....it is cold, rusted steel.
A choir of whispers is drowning the room,
The geometry shifts in this cathedral of gloom.
The floor is a mouth and the walls are a throat,
And I am the drowning man, missing the boat.
My name is a sound that I’ve started to lose,
Filtered through filth and the smell of the bruise.
The demons aren't coming from pits in the floor,
They’re spilling from cracks in my ribcage’s door.
I scream, but the echo is swallowed by grease,
There is no redemption, there is no release.
The vacuum is hungry, the vacuum is wide,
With nowhere for sanity’s carcass to hide.
The icons are melting, the altars are black,
The universe shudders and starts to retract.
Hope is a poison that burns in the vein,
A cruel little joke in a kingdom of pain.
Black bile is rising to fill up my eyes,
Mapping the terrain where the last mercy dies.
I reach for a hand and I find only bone,
A harvest of silence I’ve planted alone.
The clock has stopped ticking; the gears have gone soft,
While something with eyes watches me from the loft.
It feeds on the panic, the salt, and the dread,
A parasite nesting inside of the dead.
Overwhelmed, hollowed, and erased from the script,
Into the throat of the nothingness slipped.
No heaven is watching, no hell is prepared,
Just the dark and the fact that I’m finally scared.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
