Take it all back,
usurp the death you brought here;
uncreate what you claim
beg forgiveness of your frankensteins,
disturb again the balance you hide behind
the blemished face you cower
with your banal achievements
in the face of that which you could have done better

There is nothing here worth preserving,
There is nothing here to clothe this plague behind,
No ocean big enough to swallow the lands,
No heat enough to kill off the bacterial swamps

Only death will create your longing
And dry your bleeding heart...
The bones eschew their own delight
In the sound they make trapped in the
Molers of their creator...

Milk, anyone?