Vermicular Heritage

Calcified remnants of forgotten dialects Entombed in sepulchral cerebral caverns Ancestral marrow leached by corrosive modernity Putrefaction of sacred knowledge Ossified tongues Petrified in silence Crypts of elders drowned in fetid apathy Oral legacies decompose in shallow graves Generational ligaments severed by obsidian blades Festering wounds where traditions once pulsed Ossified tongues Petrified in silence Excoriated by the void's consumption Ossified tongues Devoured by progress Cultural sinew rotting in acidic tides Exhumed artifacts rustle malignant truths Rotting flesh of the past Roots strangled in necrotic soil Corroded icons of forgotten deities Terminal necrosis of linguistic veins Identity dissected on altars of uniformity Charnel house of culture birthing Roaches of homogeneity Ritualistic vestiges Primordial wisdom Ancient runes beneath urban cancers Memory purged from collective cortex

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Jun 05, 2026

Lacquered lung, no breath, no air Pale grain swells in a swollen stare Mouthless hunger, bloated tongue Hollow roots where voices hung Splintered teeth, no taste, no sound Pressed beneath and never found Fingernails in dust engrained Names dissolve but marks remain Bone dust laughter, oil-fed wane No decree, no sharpened chain Hibernation, vermin wait Rotting slow but not to waste Pestled marrow, cold leaf feast Swallowed whole by silent teeth The jester sings, the dancers play Grain grows thick Where bodies fray Name dissolves in lacquered light Fingers scratch but skin stays tight Dampened spasms stretched too thin Wood absorbs the breath within Veins in splinters, pulse unwinds Flesh unthreaded, left behind One by one the words unspool Filling gaps in hollow gruel Blind moths gather, drawn to none Father laughs, the pull is gone Not enough to break or fade Just enough to waste away Brittle shade, no weight, no form Held in place but never worn Drifting husk in dust confined Neither severed nor aligned Fractured silence stretching thin Sinking slow in air so dim Woven deep yet pulling wide Unraveling what is inside No return, no soil to take No hand to grasp, no ground to break Only whispers drifting pale Only grain that bends and wails Only embers weaving cold Only dust that slips its hold The sky won't fall, the bones won't shake The rats won't bite, the hand won't break No fire, no flood No fate to claim Just a husk inside the grain Once a breath but now a stain Once a prince now remains The door stays shut, the throne still stands The husk remains No blood on hands, no blood

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Jun 05, 2026