Born of the Mire
Just Columns of Flesh
Bent Afflicted
In Fear
Dead in Themselves
Mere Empty Shells
Unseen Unwanted
Slowly Marching
A Rotten Trail
Along the Ropes
To Strangle Them
I Stand Afar
I Watch Them Crawl
Into the Hallways of the Abattoir
Mute
Joyless
Emaciated
Dead
What is God
Just a Thought
A Wish
A Principle
Sarcastic
Where No Light Shines
Beneath the Widow Weeds
In Moors With Soggy Ground
They Sink
They Shall Not Breathe
The Shall Not Scream
The Slaves of the Mill
Dying Worthless
Within the Corridors
Of the Slaughterhouse
What Does Not Live Can Have No Voice
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