Cold Hate Warm Blood - Cryptopsy

Late last night at rest with my mate

I’m visited by a victim of hate

A spectoral group, yet they’re one and the same

They would never live

Nor would they have a name

A baby too young to walk or to talk

Rocked to sleep with a big, heavy rock

Becomes a tot with a baleful glare

Sucked from life by a shortage of air

A child beyond time without gender

Metamorphing to surrender

Each shape for one older and still

No end to how each could be killed

By chance in the polyverse i’m all of these

Each to fall prey with unnerving ease

To who knows which ambiguous marasmus

It asked at once knowing

And unknowing the answers

To things far removed from my experience

Or need to know and thus it thanked me

For sparing it death’s multiplicitous masques

And life’s thankless laborious tasks

January, child born alas

February, still still frail as glass

March through a formative period you must

April child, in god, distrusts

May comes and goes and shortlived is the hope

June is the halfway mark of your rope

July child fears end of time

August child in slow decline

September, sense starts to fail

October’s child, the burden ails

November’s child malingers on

December’s child is dead and gone