it is chaos given form,
one our minds cannot embrace.
its foul tongue, a locust swarm;
click and whir and carapace.
in bleak depths it was still-born,
the soul spawn of a dead race.
our battle is lost;
our will: less than meaningless
to the varelse.
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'Space Usurper', white ink on black paper, ps, 2012 -full view plz-