Their vice is my hold, feeling the depths of your bold wanderings, looking for the daily flavor of your solution. What if I told you there is no solution; there is soul and no, without an end. Brush your mind with mindless wants, coating yourself with the desires they place in your palm. View me, be like them, you must embody this life to be worthy of your given breath.
March little one, march with those who are standing in line as you grow tall. Sprouts of the divine reach for the pixelated sunny specter of your future. The parents foster as you pay to play with your forevermore brethren of tiny handed cogs in the fixed machine.
Round and round the cranking season, pulling at the puppetry of life hoping there might be a reason … for … all … this … treason. The jokes on you my nestling. The husband, mother and father, child and wife, have betrayed their self-allegiance; embrace the handshake of his world as you are sold.
Pennies on the dollar.
