The Centipede God

All hail the centipede's machine,
Without it, who would keep your life clean?
Look upon the meat within,
See all you have sacrificed,
All that has been,
As a result of this masterful artifice!
Will you look upon it?
Step into its domain,
Winding and falling, into a wasted feeling of oblivion.
Wil you try to understand it?
Possessed with clicking shame,
Cold and dead, yet warm with a strange unwanted life.
Behold as it moves!
Your master awakens,
Hungry, but never ravenous.
"Tolerate Me!", it behooves,
Concealed motives,
So many of these lies tell the murky, misconcieved truth.
A bright, gleaming, metallic shell, rises in a line,
A head sits atop, placing itself in a way most benign.
Do you dare look into its eyes?
Orbs of many facets,
As decietful as the day that you live.
So you dare look for its mind?
Mechanics make a beast,
Nothing fierce or close, completely uncomplete.
So many plod past it,
So many plod within it,
So little plod wihtout it,
All dead those who love it,
All trapped those who question it,
And so exists the blank union.
A decaying, glowing, hideous sphere,
We have made war and it watched with no fear,
So many facets in its insect eyes,
Nothing takes our great god by surprise.
Bolar, Ah-Pook, Titanic behemoths of a byegone age,
Before it the earth shook with mighty rage.
So do you understand?
Hear, see and feel?
Is there a human connection?
So the great gods aspects appeal?
To your senses. Does it offend?
It will not care if you see the end.
So rise from the yellow pages,
Spawned from your clicking typewriter,
To offer your soul,
TO OUR MECHANIZED MASTER!