A Wrongness

 
It should not be—it cannot be
This wretched spawn of blasphemy
No beast, no man, nor thing of earth  
Could claim such twisted, cursed birth
Its very breath defies the law  
Of life, of flesh, of nature’s draw

A stench of sin, of broken time
Its skin, decayed with grime
A mockery of form it wears
body bent through hellish snare
Eyes where no light could dwell
Are windows to a deeper Hell

No living hand could shape this form
Nor dying breath could make it warm
Stands when it should crawl or writhe
A thing whose very bones connive  
Against the natural and holy will
A void where life and death stand still

The fur, once soft, now stiff with rot
Is stained by blood the world forgot
Each limb, a relic of despair
Moves with the weight of death’s cold air
It stalks, but not with hunger’s need
No mortal urge or creature’s greed

It hungers, yet for what unknown
No meat, no flesh, no blood, no bone
It craves the silence, craves the end
Where nature’s rules no longer bend
It smiles, and in that wicked curve
You see the world begin to swerve

For in its form, the truth lies bare
A wrongness not of here or there
Breaks the bounds of earth and sky
A walking sin that cannot die
It is the death that never sleeps
A curse that into being seeps

O, gaze not long, nor ponder deep
Thing from where no light can creep
It is the shape that nature spurns
The fire that never cools or burns
Against all law, it stands alone
A horror that defies the known