That obfuscate the shape of what we see:
An underland, ectopic and immense,
Reaching up to dark infinity.
The beams our little lights produce illume
Only enough to show the shadows creasing
Across the oddly colored building bloom
Which toils unseen, unknown, but never ceasing.
The thick red lips of creatures in the seams
Make everything around them terrifying
It is an image never made for dreams
But for a nightmare where the world is dying.
We must ascend, and hope it will not follow
And wish the world, perhaps, a bit more hollow.
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