We are a strange blend of flesh and soul,
Ripping through the dead grass of another's
Night-time moans
And morning-time groans
Absentmindedly,
With our eyes turned towards
A map of stars
Hidden by a strange sort of azure -

We chant for the hot meat and cold drink
To wet our lips,
To slide down our throats
Ravenously,
And fill a place within us that we know
Will always be hollow;
A place that will never know the pleasure
Of being whole.