Blackest art is what we deal,   Drawing chalk lines in your kitchen.   Targeting occult alleles,   We'll catalyze our mother's fission.      The room is burning and we're still here.   We are a circle of fourteen arms,   Even as windows bend.   We are a tear in the math of ice,   A saddle aback the cold shell of the terrapin.      Over. I've done all I can do   To unvenomize, so you can see this through.      Now, finally, the maker mends us,   Furnishes a blood decanter.   Five and eighty-five rememories arrest,   Furrowings along the middle parts attest to this.      The room is burning and we're still here.   We are a circle of fourteen arms,   Even as windowpanes bend.   We are a tear in the math of ice,   A saddle aback the cold shell of the terrapin.      Over. I've done all I can do   To unvenomize, so you can see this through.