To what is my gaze affixed this time
The slowly rotting fruit of eye
A man lay prone upon the floor
Writhes in pain consumed in lore
With every inch he sows the stitch
A futile race to cure the itch
An infestation underneath
Of a million little squirming teeth
His conscious lost, the dark he drinks
A heavy black, to his pit it sinks

As tumors form upon his ***
And shock runs through a cattle ****
They weigh him down, tie to the floor
And loose his error from every pore
And on every tile the liquid ran
For every length and every span
And one could see there in his eye
A thousand holy hopes had died
And if ever this just a sordid dream
I’ll never forget their thousand screams

Such it was as I looked into
This gate of soul and bid adieu
And from the plane I looked away
From the blur of silver gray
And as I turned toward the world
The image caught, never swirled
And every moment I do wake
Of this vision I do take
And every moment that I think
Of this liquid I do drink