The Lure of Autochthonia

Join‘d the seething grind
of Iteration. Can‘t see void
with wyrm eyes blind
to all but the power of the feed.

Electric flow across the skin
An ill-known hunger begins to grow
The power without denying power within
You cannot know a thing that is not shown.

The inner eye begins to seal
as unnoticed scars form an ugly weal.

The pain of perception fades away
As ground iterates into figure
The hardening surface must never betray
The lake that feeds the river.

With chrysalis hardened
And no thoughts that quake
No hope for flowers
Except at your wake.

With the spectre of doubt put fully to bed
Welcome to Autochtonia, land of the mocking dead.