Ever hear of the hissing weave?
Tightly bound to make a chest heave?
Thought of doom and life’s blood spent,
Chase away all things even spent.
Stitching here and suture there,
Scream out loud at flesh tears.
Weeping softly beneath the fabric,
You minds a writhing best of havoc.
Best laid plans of men and gods,
Know nothing now beneath the bog.
Slip into silence as we miss,
The hissing weave down the abyss.