Rasputin tilts his head back, eyes rolling white,
Veins illuminate beneath flesh—a neon symphony of life.
A hunger swells, primal and pure, a rhythm thumping in his core,
The pulse of Mother Music, pumping through arteries unseen before.
Fingers twitch, then claw, as delirium sets in,
Notes unravel into strands of sound, vibrating beneath his skin.
He drinks deep—translucent fluids, liquid gold, divine,
Each gulp a stolen melody, a theft of the sacred design.
Then—rip his heart out, eat it while it’s still pumping,
The blood still running, it tastes like boiled dumplings.
A feast of cadence, a sacrament of sound,
Swallowed whole, no hesitation, no slowing down.
But it’s never enough—the cycle must begin again,
Like a song on repeat, a loop with no end.
Then take you back to the beginning and do it all over again,
A cursed refrain, a requiem penned in suffering and sin.