Certain things should never be given life
It prowls the ether of my mind,
skulking in my dreams.
Thrashing, biting, gnashing, writhing,
clawing out of me.
Alastor, son and daughter both,
fusion of psychic plasm.
Grown from a discontented seed,
an infant catyclasm.
I loathe this creature tenderly,
feeding upon self-worth,
my cursed scion swells each night,
demanding I give birth.
It mewls with separate gaping mouths,
haunting piteous cries.
Below the halo and twisting horns lurk
a trio of milky eyes.
He speaks with oozing severed tongue
spilling scarlet words,
She lures, she baits, she imitates
voices of those you've heard.
They whisper while I'm slumbering,
Dear father let us free...
I do not dare unleash that pair
I fear my head will split open
granting an escape.
Help me end this cruel torment lest
their true form takes shape.