Its whispers call us across the void,

Our last defenses futilely employed.

Those writhing tendrils round the bloodied orb

Our weapons, prayers, and pleas ignored.

Then at once our forms it stole,

A pound of flesh for encumbered souls.

At first we wept for our resurrection,

As we could not yet comprehend perfection.

A visceral mass of gelatinous meat,

A bulbous tumor where once were feet.

Yet what knew we of beauty's hue?

Of bliss unspoken, of sight born new?

A song came forth through our new eye,

A guttural, gorgeous, grotesque cry

Weaved through light in spectrums unheard

And with each new scream were reassured.

Our voices; not from pain, nor fear, nor terror grow.

It is our worship, the only prayer we know.