our place of worship is silence - from the noisome pestilence lyrics
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commence the containment protocol
raise the barrier higher than the sky and then
release the beasts to devour this rot
an olive branch is offered in this temple of dread
like a broken hand
a programmed massacre invoked through
algorithmic waste
anchoring to attractions of wrath
all flesh is made of the same dross as all things
drinking from the chalice of a cataclysmic emergence
stained in fire and brimstone, while isolation fuels
the fugitive doubts from fleeting abhorrence
the purification of the root
the olive branch is now rotten
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