The mind machine

 
These clandestine fault lines
That riddle the surface of reality.
Myopic precipices like the parting of lips
Baring the teeth within.
Parting just wide enough to permit the escape of a dream,
Of a scream echoing a long forsaken soul.
Through these lapses into madness, I glimpse the truth
Seething beneath this macabre illusion.
The gears that mesh within, motivated by renegade nostalgia.
Lubricated with the blood of eons,
Slithering a crimson path through the ashes of a distant life.
All the previous false faces crush between the cogs,
Choking them with clots of hair and gore.
Showering their teeth below to take root and flourish,
To flourish into poison-laden thorns,
Sprouting from the network of vines that encompasses my hatred.
Prick thy finger and thou shalt surly suffer.
With each shaking of this reality,
The fault lines spread, not unlike some plague of enlightenment.
Peering into these cavernous depths at the decay within,
A renaissance of chaos peering back.
With flesh stained black by the ink of shadows,
My hatred patiently waits.
But, with war on the wind,
My mind cannot help but to salivate.