The sound that emptiness makes.
The wound that disparity wakes.

Restrained.

If only I could get some sleep,
drowning in drugs, oh so cheap,
trying to destroy that complex machine
the one that haunts my dreams,
the one that burns me by my seams,
and everything wedged in-between.

Ingrained.

In time, we all die inside.
When hope becomes a dried lie.
When torture fuels the guilt.
The house infatuation built.

It lies.

Contained.

It cries.

If I knew what it was, how it went,
I would be brave enough for faith's leap
and I could start to make a single dent,
in the ideas keeping me from my sleep.

Nightmare vision of eternal division.
A cruel decision upon painful excision.
A stone provision on tragic precision.

Inside!

It lies!
It cries!
It breeds!
In time....
It dies!