The world I see is built from living flesh,

Its colors scream inside a fever dream,

The walls all breathe, the air begins to rot,

Yet in that ruin, I still call it love,

Her eyes, her skin, her trembling voice,

My god, my hell, my perfect night.

She came to me beneath the starving night,

Her touch reshaped the boundaries of flesh,

Each word she spoke became a holy voice,

That echoed through the corridors of dream,

And in her hunger I discovered love,

A paradise of pain, a garden’s rot.

I never feared the beauty of rot,

The way it hums beneath the sleepless night,

For I was blind before I saw her love,

Before she peeled away my mortal flesh,

And led me deep inside her endless dream,

Where reason drowned beneath her whispered voice.

I built a shrine around that silken voice,

I prayed to her in the language of rot,

For what is truth but a deluded dream,

A fleeting thought that shatters in the night?

She touched my bones and sanctified my flesh,

And promised I would never lose her love.

They call it madness, I call it love,

The sacred hymn that hides inside her voice,

The ache that pulses under torn-up flesh,

The bloom that rises sweet from human rot,

The mercy born in chaos of the night,

The end of logic, reason, thought, or dream.

And if I wake from this infected dream,

I’ll choose to die inside her cursed love,

To sleep forever in the womb of night,

To drown beneath the echo of her voice,

To taste eternity inside the rot,

To melt together, endless, one in flesh.


Through flesh, through rot, through dream and voice,
My love becomes the silence of the night,
The song she sings, my final, sweet demise.