Arsenic and strychnine,
hemlock and oleander,
narcissus like wine,
the highs lead to death,
feeling so fine.

The swings of the hammer,
the splashes of gore,
a Jackson Pollack brush
of blood upon the floor.

A bit of flesh,
torn in the teeth,
as life passes,
no signs of grief.

Long pork aroma,
fills the air,
in the corner,
skin and hair.

Legion swarms of fallen angels,
demons now consumed,
with no one following the light,
humanity simply meets its doom.