Broken,
Crumbling beneath the heat of a hundred stoves and
Under the pressure of expectations dealt by hands of
Gamblers, and drug lords alike.
Created,
From a world that is to them, so unknown,
A world formed by dust and filled with
Administrative pricks and lovers alike.
Emptied,
Desaturation floats freely in its home
In the cold gray clouds above, avoided by
Beach go-ers and meteorologists alike.
Scared,
If we've come to the end of the world,
we'll throw ambition away because we're all
Workers and Industrial Haters alike.
Nervous,
With fingernails run down to nubs,
I await my fate feeling as antsy as
Trouble makers and hypochondriacs alike.
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