The Dismantling

Behind all hearts lives the anti-thought.
Quintessence is there untaught.
An unraveling softer than silk.
Gave us to this mother of rotten milk.
A maniacal insect loitering without sleep.
More terribly empty than the soul is deep.
Deep in its design a carefully crafted spell 
Of deconstruction, constructing a flawless hell.
Casts away love with the breath of its wings.
In comatose flagellation we let the nightmare sing.
This father of the Lost is the loss of our father.
The dismantling behind all hearts.