Alan Moore - Watchmen #8

Behind the locked door, a punctured neck resembles a spear wound geyser, an eye that waits to be opened. It won't be long now. We are mere moments from midnight.

The scars of the wound resembled a map, burned white-hot into flesh, a colonizing fire outlining the lost lands, where tendrils beneath the earth wait and wait and erupt into storm.

Les Misérables hollow man stare, an impotent confession, a waking nightmare. An empty shell, qlippothic grace, a pool for man to see his face. Cool, this face. Buried it will be, without a trace. "Why don't you get a job, Al?" 

In paradise of hate, feelings shift and mutate, leaving wandering sons hurtling through space, earth shot flames dissipate, revealing child's rage, who yearns to take from noble hearts their very fate.

The fire, negative orange in the black desert night, burns its spite, a promise. Freedom from constraint, it whispers. Freedom from these people. And a paradise of hatred.

The Code must be maintained. Deploy bubbles. Feed. Angles. Steady. Power boxes. Feed. Cables. Steady. Feed. Now snow. Walk him away. Suffusion enacting.   

Wisdom, whether owl or sphinx, a shadow tomb, pulls black flesh to void. He kisses her hand and descends, silent, naked, alone. 

Demon of the air, shadow casting, slide over land, a bane to the sun. See the warm white cold flesh enter the cave, see it, truth sweating. Watch it turn yellow in this land of wolves. "Okay, it's a fuck up, what're we going to do now?"

"I believe I was spared so I could finish the job."

To prick the human conscience itself, to make it bleed the shape of hopeless loss, and want to die but know that conscience denies, even as the gravity of nothing leaves it laughing and alone.