Pattern precog rushing dead point
Entrails divulge forecast
Cut the signal heart rate clocked
With the patience of slow death
Epileptic topography
Abruptly white noise paves
Putting it apart with music
The sky will be your grave
Surrendering grains to the ebb
Of the tides
The tang of salt will pass with time
I read dead pixels in the grains of the sky
Scrambling to transcribe
Freshly minted sprites
Every time I clock your eyes
I fucking want to die