Step down through the tunnel
To where sanity is the exception,
Not the rule. The reception is
Disorienting; the detoxers laugh
And the head-cases cry, or else
Silently portray the visual tome of anguish
With eyes dancing from the harsh, white lights.

Contorted bodies cry, buried by
Smiles, seemingly faked for the sake of normality.
Mutants scream the totality of their lives.
The Big Ship’s communications are grim,
Where once hope was laced in it
Now there are only omens of death;
There’s brevity in my breaths.
Guided by what seems to be deceit to me,
Panic guides my steps
Into the unknown. Dear god,
What have I done?