Scratch the itch and tick the lick, we're drowning in flames.
Oh, what a big black box, we're huddled in.
They scream for us, in hearts and minds, they crave us.
That which is indefinable, shapeless and without limitation.
That sticky muck is underfoot and they fight it, sinking deeper into the darkness they think they know. Into the inky ether, paddling with arms weary and strained.
Floating down the river Styx, in mind and motion, adrift and aimless. Legions of 'nearly-there's' and 'almost-weres', side by side.
A liquid chain-link fence of hopefuls; all thinking the devil their slave.
Pitiful mortals all hurrying about, trying to snatch up a bit of 'chaos', so that they might ensnare the world.
Such a big black box, I'm in, he said.
"He said," she said, he did and they were. "All lost in here, behind eyeballs and mur." For the crowning of a King of Kings, was at hand.
All hope is gone.
There is no Phoenix rising.
Yet, there, in the underbelly, in the pit of your stomach, churning away - it's the horror.
Slack-jawed innocence being siphoned away and cached in a place of our choosing. From it, we'll draw ourselves upright, walk the earth and melt mens bones, once more.
Such a deep, deep bleakness.
Crawling up the spine, tail nestling behind ear, tongue lapping at the neurons and turning man into monster.
And he slumbers.
When man meets myth - all skies come crashing down, in different hues and different shades.
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