At this pinnacle of dust
Smiling down, empty, at the rust

The cogs will turn no more
Every move, every moment a chore
Lying there clamoring at fate
All administrations too late

Lost in the maze
Eternally confused by what to crave
In the silent shell
That doubles as hell

The conditions that drew one here
Doubts and disillusionment the mind spears
Are benevolent once the horizon clears
For these clouds of dust
Hide the nothingness they must

So the carousel turns on
Leaving its creatures wanton
For the knife in their gut
Enjoying each pointless rut

Is one truly free
When all thoughts flee?
Pitiful puppets, aren’t we?