A jungle of monsters
tearing skylines, clouds
black barrage against
the sun as if to say:
These are our skies now, we
are the Keepers of the Dawn.
Their cells pitter-patter,
close the eye-lids on whims,
yellow fluorescents, sharp whites,
pale blue eyes pulsing random
rainbow montages against the night
as if to say:
This is our night now, we are
the Keepers of the Torches.
Their cells chitter-chatter
a cacophonous language
without rhythm without
solidarity without purpose
as if to say:
This is our land now, we
are the Keepers of the Chaos.
A jungle land of steel
giants, Cthulhu beasts
beating down the nuclei
of cells, who, for so long
have confused their slavery
for their triumph. Procreating,
splitting, a mitosis of concrete
as if to say:
We are the Mortar of Goliaths, we
are the Blood which Feeds the Muscles,
we are the Pulse which Conquers Land
and Lights the Torches, we are the
the Rhythm Beneath the Chaos
who without the skies would reign.
Their cells chant, their cells pulse
and light and beat against the
walls of their ventricle homes,
all the while the Monsters, the Goliaths,
and Cthulhu with their many eyes cast
shadows down upon their slaves,
with smiles of gold cast upon the lot,
as if to say:
We are the Solidity of Illusion,
the Lucidity of Dreams.
We are the Keepers of the Torches
whose lights are Chaos Beneath Rhythm,
whose eyes are Keepers of the Skies,
whose faces Watch the Land.
We are the Manifest of a Lustful Millennium–
and This is Our Jungle Now.
