Behind the bloodshot eyes lies endless ticking,
within clockwork puzzles of shallow noise,
penetrating deeply inside the womb of chaos
and beyond the limits of a character's depth.
We, the forsaken, built monuments
to the archons of self-pity,
and tangled our fates
in labyrinthine denials
so that the entire vastness of anything
could witness our every heartbeat
slamming against the walls of bone
that was turned into our prison cages;
And we, the abandoned, fall short
in the face of creativity and ambitions,
singing like an off-key amateur choir
whenever anyone takes the time to listen.
