A skull is full of filth and mold

And throbs without an end.

The lies by which through grace were told

Can make life feel pretend.

This viral throb which occupies

A head, a heart, and soul

Can rob me of my consciousness,

Stomping into a hole.

The sickle of infection carves itself by means of dread

And consciously as vision blurs, the parasite embeds.

Denial fakes an act in past confuting what we'll do

As bolts of thought are lost within an algorithmic flu

A head re-scathed by self, a carburetor of despair,

A claustrophobic skull swells to a point it cannot bear.

A sonic life will make efficient thoughts serving no means

But leads to pain in happiness, if life no longer seems.