Moloch, they're not afraid of you anymore.
Descend from your perch unknown.
I'm falling back where I've shattered
to recover a piece of my mind--
through fog settled thick I hear it call:
as a whisper distorted in age.
You need to calm down.
But it's a stutter through locked jaw--
some slurred set, wicked bound,
muffled by incessant, viscous, sound.
In your dreams you're a sailor surprised by the hate underfoot.
"Towards tomorrow!" you shout to the sky.
When lucidity lapses you're shocked, it feels like the first time.
Start repeating "good bye."