With darkness as his only father.
No echoes of his first cry.
Recycled breath as the only air.
Buried alive inside a corpse.
Locked in his predecessor.
Inside a tomb, licking the blood from a withered womb.
The deepest spot in the potter's field, inside the closest coffin to hell.
Inhuman creation.
Entrapped by nails.
Unaware of time or emotions, an unsouled being, a mistake growing underground.
Unmentioned in the headstone.
Against gods will.
Against gods will.
Found his way out the crypt, carving with bare hands at the ground.
Eats his kind to survive, eats his kind to survive.
Found his way out the crypt, leaving her carcass behind.
Eats his kind to survive, eats his kind to survive.
Life from death lives through the dead, through human meat, and bone and flesh.
Now she's gone, no corpse left.
So he seeks to eat another whore.
He still remembers when he threw her up, an upsurge of organs, nerves, and that spate of love regurgitating her heart.
The graveyard is his larder, his hideout, his unholy home.
Ossuary infested by worms, full of limbs, spines, torsos and hundreds of skulls.
Walks among the living, missing the warmth of her ribs.
Missing the black of her eyes, the black of her all, the taste of her guts.
Eats his kind to survive, eats his kind to survive.
Life from death lives through the dead, through human meat, and bone and flesh.