Broca's Boil

Pills pillage and diminished visibility, making men fall in line. Become a cog in the wheel of our furnished dream, following to where the big brothers lead you to go.

The landscape of dissimulation provides no security, as they lead you to believe they can fix you. The illusion of green grass and security, browns as they watch your brain spoil.

Dimmer they become with every joy swallowed, muting their unique mannerisms. Mannequins are the rebirth of assimilation, flowing into fields of ideal daises blowing in life’s winds of biological perfection.

There you are with your brothers, turning the crank in perfect time. 4/4 of a living death, churning to the rhythm of the picket fence terrain.

Am I the man or the flower, the cog or the storm? Am I you, or am I me, or am I everything the watchers think I should be?

Churn. Crank. Churn. Crank. End. I was never the tipping point, I was every brother and sister’s ruse of life. Finis.