I canst stand this wretched hell called home no more, tis this place that shalt be mine death. For what shalt i haveth left? When the grotesque night walkers **** out mine last of all energies. Tasting blood again, past sin turned misery! Easily spoken for a pastor to say he knoweth demons. Hellion of teething bandits unearthed from hades. Sadistic babies. Continuous madmen of killers delight. For maby ill take a flight wherein those varmint  canst scratch nor bite. Where all is right. And repleneshing wilt come by gods own fiery sword. A place of highest compassion, shrined amour'. No earthmade door. No grocery stores to search whats all needed. Just pureness wherein no goblins nor ghouls are hatched, maintained. Nor breeded!

Perhaps you’re made to be the perfect mirror for the sky:
An earthmade object of vanity, dazzling and bright.
I think it’d make me far more comfortable
If I could just see through all this reflected light.

You’re cold, sharp, and shallow at the edges,
Even though it’s half past July.
I must dance atop of your mossy stone
Then stop when a familiar dark shape slithers by.

And when I finally reach the point
Where I have to desperately flap my arms
Like freshly plucked chicken wings
Just to stay on top of your unbridled form,

You’re strong and steady
In rushing past me to the right,
Pulling me along
In a current that is difficult to fight.

All the while I am forced to think of what is beneath me,
What can fit in all your space between me and your mud covered ground?
A scaly hand of some lovecraftian horror reaching up, up!
And grasping my left ankle, and pulling me down, down, down.