Rise of the Xenotype

The silent book I wrote
was bred with fleshy seeds of rationale torment
Torn apart by the subliminal bedlam of demons
forged in my inner Babel

Once I found myself among dried-up bodies
A speechless nod of concealed wastelands
where immortal divinities are nothing but unloaded guns
aimed to man’s head as a coward threat
posed by the last remnants of yet forgotten dark ages

Thus far such fear has enchained us
We are masochistic reapers
Blacksmiths covered with corpses’ ashes
Genital syntheses escaped to collapsing eons
because conceived in viscid cages built up for the masses

Soon our latent embryonic consistency
will lead a relentless rage to the annihilation
of those servants to the oblivion
Crippled beggars who cower before the great lie
And stroke broken bones as golden shrines

Once I was told that in eons to come
The measure of man’s despair
will be the inner celebration of suffering and withdrawal
Instead we need chaos in our souls
to unleash the limbic system’s cryptic core

Rip apart thy masters and makers
Anger is no longer withheld
for thou writing unknown blasphemies for chaos’s breed
for thou making a bloody way out of Tartarus

We create monsters to remind us our mortality
our unconditional reliance on society’s alienation
forged by the taunting ambiguity of human existence

We have always had to struggle
to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe
But no price is too high to pay
for the privilege of owning yourself
for thou to undertake the path of the Xeno-type.