The nagging sleep claws into pink flesh begging it's death-like manner into a call to action

Biting cold with the death dream, fickle imagination setting fire to decency

And the little dreams dance about in your head, mad children lurking, orphaned-

Then the rattling of the rafters with the years behind,
Their black mess still lingering-
Feeding off the disease cast aside

Poor dream,
The ugly nightscape has been sobered up
The pangs were left in poverty

No I do not need your fetishes..
And the parasites flee