In The Pit Of Red You Hid

Where Are The Gods The Gods Hate Us The Gods Have Run Away The Gods Have Hidden In Holes The Gods Are Dead Of The Plague They Rot And Stink Too There Never Were Any Gods There’s Only Death

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

The Jaws' Hooked Clamp And Fangs Not To Be Changed At This Date; A Life Subdued To Its Instrument.

I Sit In The Top Of The Wood, My Eyes Closed. Inaction, No Falsifying Dream Between My Hooked Head And Hooked Feet: Or In Sleep Rehearse Perfect Kills And Eat.

The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear With Sand And With Fear. You May Wash Out The Sand, But Never The Sound Of The Ghost Of The Sea That Is Haunting Me.