Blackened hearts and sharpened tongues reside,
In the rotting corpse shells of these halls.
Preying on the weak, and going for the strike.
Mind numbingly following the herd, never even really awake.
Follow the leader, tag you’re it, Simon says, “**** yourself.”
But does Simon really understand?
That the weight of those words is greater than his precious ego?
It’s easy to be a target when the bright fluorescents and cold linoleum leave you unguarded.
But Simon will never know that, will he?
He’s guarded by the maggots that feed off of his discarded victims.