It's the rip, the blackened maw, the claw that tears, the **** that spits.
Knees, shredded— crawling through filth, scraping against the stars, that grin, that lie, that barbed glint.
Skulls crack, thrones melt, heaven vomits ash, saints bleed rust.
Slogging through sludge— sin stitched to skin, to bone, to the grin.
Mortals crawl, tongues dry, licking lies, ******* venom, choking on the ash of their own breath.
Chains? Swallowed, each link, a sear, a burn, a scar, a choke.
It's the howl, jaw snapped, embered to bone, a name carved in the rot, in the ruin, in the blood.
Redemption? A sick joke, a priest’s last spit, dread, laughter, truth, bile.
Splintered, shrieks, teeth ground, shards in the throat, prayers, vapor, venom, a last hiss, ash in the wind.
Truth is nothing but a empty void, A painting made of blood and tar, It’s a scream into the abyss,
daring you to look at the rot and ruin without flinching,
It's more like a punch than a whisper.