The pressure,
functions far beneath the surface,
beyond even darkness,
pushing against mundane complacency,
the nine to five,
contentedness;
jealousy seeking a surface it will never see.

That viscera,
grinding like worms, displacing the earth,
infecting the mantle with friction;
ur minerals confronting each other,
conflicted purposes,
devouring;
Sacrificing themselves to see the end of the other.

It burns,
that ancient exchange of authenticity,
for the hot pulpy rage that takes its place,
patiently waiting in the soil,
biding time,
stalking;
until finally it can break free and consume.

The surface,
undisturbed for countless generations,
is corrupted by the change,
so long schemed beneath its skin.
Malicious intent,
contempt;
the kind of anger only born from corpses.