This is the beast that lurks within your dreams,
In every corner. Coiled, silent. Still.
It once took lives but now has had its fill
Of things that fade. It whets a blade and schemes.
In tubes and crevices its seeds are found:
These darkened dots we spot, and hoard, and weigh;
Keep in accounts with no intent to pay,
And seal in vaults. Such faults are fertile ground.
But we are safe, and what is sealed, is sealed.
We need not taste the things we would not be.
Made free of faults, our world is safely free,
Our, victory. The beast has left the field.
The world belongs to stone and tree and wave,
Its calm perfection ready for the grave.
Jenkins Rising 