Restless.
My skin feels raw and worn, wrapped in sweat soaked sheets.
I'm anxious and I can't place the reason why. I can't sleep. I hate not being able to sleep.
Angry at engorged politicians; vultures feasting on dreams.
Carrion.
Bleached, skeletal remains. Wasted.
It makes me despise the lidless eye. The angry sun. The inescapable gaze.
Gives life at the dawn. Asks much more in return when the time comes to slip past the further edge.
These machines have never known conscience.
Soul.
The price. The final price.
In the wasteland you've got to go the extra mile to make it real.
Pretense of submission might appease those on the lower rungs but it doesn't do the trick here.
Serious sacrifice. Serious bloodletting. True angst, honest horror, cloaked in shame,
standing in the shadow of the tower of dread.
Life.
Can be punished, but never destroyed.
Passion can be submerged but never fully expunged.
The spirit of zeal is a bottomless well, which keeps drawing pure.
No matter the poison leeching to the depths.
Buying time. No matter.
Twisted empire.
Will fail.