The body is not yours. It is a membrane stretched tight, The Dark Surgeon finds the rhythm, slow, measured, and right. It is the current singing, a high, thin, crimson whine, Every vein a wire played by the Sanguine Mechanic along the spine. Oh, the currents turn inward, the thick, metallic tide, Reversing the flow of life, with nowhere left to hide. This is the touch of Dark Surgery, the Somatic Reconstruction's art, A phantom limb awaking, tearing the perception of self apart. Sensation burns, this is your pain—it is pure, hot, clinical need, The insidious promise that the body will now bleed. Deferred Collapse, sustained in glorious, perfect form, To live inside the thunder of a self-inflicted storm. He mends the tear before the cell can even scream, You are trapped inside the horror of a waking dream. The sinew is his needle, the nerve-ending his thread, A map of living torment in the hands of the undead. The poison of the knowledge: you will not pass away, But live and learn and lust for pain that finds you every day. This is the touch of Dark Surgery, the Somatic Reconstruction's art, A phantom limb awaking, tearing the perception of self apart. Sensation burns, this is your pain—it is pure, hot, clinical need, The insidious promise that the body will now bleed. Deferred Collapse, sustained in glorious, perfect form, To live inside the thunder of a self-inflicted storm. This is the touch of Dark Surgery, the Somatic Reconstruction's art, A phantom limb awaking, tearing the perception of self apart. Sensation burns, this is your pain—it is pure, hot, clinical need, The insidious promise that the body will now bleed. Deferred Collapse, sustained in glorious, perfect form.
