Letras
Behold the maw, wide as grief,
Where bygone kings are chewed like beef.
It drifts between what was and seems,
A butcher of ancestral dreams.
What name was mine? I do not ken.
It fed on me and fed again.
My mother's face? A rotted skein.
It gnawed the thread. I feel no pain.
Temples razed with no debris,
Not crumbled stone just history.
Scrolls unwrit and tongues unsaid,
The maw hath kissed and thoughts lay dead.
T'was not erasure, but unbirth,
A taxidermy of self-worth.
A feast of absence served on high,
The Eidovore doth masticate sky.
No gravestones mark what's been devoured.
No ash remains from stolen hours.
It eats not meat, but recognition,
And burps up veils of false attrition.
I dreamt of hands, I think they bled,
Or was that thought already shed?
The maw hath chewed through even doubt,
And left my soul turned inside-out.
Where the names of the nameless are etched in absence,
The Eidovore kneels and licks the silence clean.
We, the never-born, chant in fog.
Our voices drip through clocks that clog.
We are the knots, the un-occurred,
A psalm devoured and a missing word.