Pattern precog rushing dead point

Entrails divulge forecast

Cut the signal heart rate clocked

With the patience of slow death

Epileptic topography

Abruptly white noise paves

Putting it apart with music

The sky will be your grave

Surrendering grains to the ebb

Of the tides

The tang of salt will pass with time

I read dead pixels in the grains of the sky

Scrambling to transcribe

Freshly minted sprites

Every time I clock your eyes

I fucking want to die