Energy of The Minotaur
The tab gives way easily.
The whole can is cold;
Condensating.
An odor of rocket fuel
Seeps into the air
When the seal breaks.
Gripping it gives way
To a vision of cold
Bull horns.
Tipping it into the mouth
Spills into your body
A sickly sweet ichor,
Like the taste of an
Enflamed maniac
Breaking through walls.
With every pulse
Of the heart, another
Wall smashed through
With a sledgehammer
And ran through
On fire.
Tastes dissapate into
Plasma in the air.
A chemical triple point.
An exhaust.
A venting.
A cold roar of the minotaur
Rising and lowering
Over the expanse of
Red hills scorched
By the blaze of a
Maniac bleeding ichor
With horns as sledgehammers.
Plasma smoke billows;
Exhaust of its pulse.
A chemical roar
Of the minotaur.
Consume Reality! 