CW: Gore, death
By Anthony Jutz
The rusting, ancient hulk,
It hungers for our bones and gore.
Caked with bile,
Its gears grind our rotting flesh.
Older than any of us can remember.
It powers our rotting city,
Huffing mold and mildew through its vents.
We feed it our dead and dying,
Yet it still hungers and groans.
Its crusted parts screech in agony,
Yearning for more than we can give.
We call out the barred windows of our city,
That not even our hottest torches can melt through.
This ancient, rusted god,
Providing power to our home and prison.
One day I will feed it, too,
My gangrenous corpse fueling it for one final hour.
In hopes, we grind,
Perchance, to find:
A way out.