It is a sad day when the words won't come;
As my mind cries and my hands weep with sorrow,
I sit in an empty husk.
Burned at both ends.
Abdication of the senses has left,
Depersonalization ensues depravation,
Question and answer,
Function as a cog.
Function as a cog.
Fuck being a cog.
and still.
nothing.
No glimmer of life on this planet, sir.
Politeness is a sweet facade,
as I function on such an insectine level,
Thrusting my mandibles forth and about in search of sweet nectar.
I would say dust has more honor and wind more truth,
but I am made of both,
and they are all that embrace me.
