Serene contortionists glide through worlds, weaving an essence unlike
Any  other. They are faceless
Yet their intent is horribly clear.
Their pathosis of reality
Wreck   illusions upon our nails
I see my mother’s face in my palms
A restless attempt at  sacrilege
They peel us into distortion
Paint oil upon our eyelids
They cry while we  laugh
All reality is a smear upon us now
Glimpses and sounds
Communicable between
Static unending miscommunication guides us
They expunge our tears with sanguine needles
They kiss us with  contamination