The future sticks out its tongue
in the eyes of the gentle past
It fears its own demise but knows it cannot last

This momentary throne
precariously formed from its ashes
It takes the time we thought was ours below to be reborn

Learn not from our scrawls
Close your ears to our rantings
And come against us
Flex your hooked claws and sniff
Like a dog at the stench of our decaying minds
Distrust the deceitful math of our perishing eyes
Run away from the phthisicky past