A toil beneath the skin

Pulsating walls of veins, a chamber made of flesh
A blood stained living altar of death and wickedness
A shapeless, nameless terror. Voiceless whispers feed the
Inner error as crawling waters
A ghastly silence — a grinding noise
Am I alone here? Is this my voice?
Cloaking herds of vermin — stone cold faces
Underneath the surface: jet black wastelands
Stirring in the dark; a toil beneath the skin
Freezing, cold with poison; a coil of hungry snakes
The Devil clearly mirrored right before me
Eyes, just like my own two, see right through me
A ghastly silence — no life to find
Am I alone here, in my mind?
The foul enigma solved, no logic to be found
A whirling chaos only, whirling and profound