Transcomunicação Fatídica

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Faces repugnantes.
Ideais descartáveis.
Corpos rasgados.

Dentes partidos, seja a desgraça louvada.
Olhos são arrancados pela boca dos ingénuos.
Rostos rebentados, o medo é a arma das sanguessugas.

Lâminas dilaceram cérebros iníquos.
O seu brilho é o Deus dos nossos tempos.
Porém, eu rejeito este mundo abortado.

Faíscas violadas ao cair do luar.
Pequenos momentos de prazer.
A corda é a resposta ao silêncio.

O ódio é a ceia mastigada.
E cuspida na cara dos inocentes.
Um soco voraz cheio de revolta.

Contos dizem que esta casca.
É apenas a mera repetição.
De muitas outras que já apodreceram.

Nós vivemos dentro do estômago da serpente.
Submeter-nos-emos a esta cínica ilusão?
Eu rejeito, com desgosto, esta realidade abortada.

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