There with them is error

We are sacrosanct

A taunting of ravens to you

My swarms have fit the holster

My faith burnt every house

Like no other manger

I am emptier with doubt



Bare them

Sevens

Three to a pall

Marks the

Venom

Lush and terminal



When I became your larvae

You fed me from your plates

Now my slouch is nervous

Sinking by the face

Wrinkled by this gravel

Skinless trace of time

Wear your cobwebs proudly

In your cheap and brittle sight

My glands emit this carnage

These pews bend back your knees



That uniform it wears you

When the ultimatum pleads



Bare them

Sevens

Three to a pall

Marks the

Venom

Lush and terminal



Just north of the eyebrows

Squat the hole for a pucker

When the rations go blonde

The salted stitch is patient

Waiting to engulf

There is plasma from this hoax

Pretending to be us



Embalming all the fluids 

I must, I must

I prefer to burn it

I must, I must