the world is a machine built of scorpions and wolves, praying for sleep and soft lullabies. the wheels and knobs turn endlessly, recklessly howling at the stars for it's desirable solace, like ghosts stuck on earth preying on others for revenge for being sentient puppets tangled in the strings, thrashing in their thoughts, stuck in a everlasting cycle carrying around burdens like a courier through dense forests and vast wastelands, burning bridges and bibles and throwing gasoline upon the architectures built up and setting them on fire but i feel hands of fear at my ankles, pulling me into the restless ocean with a pulsating ache, wolves howl from the insides of my barren stomach and making them be quiet is difficult, if duct tape worked, it would help these knives for fingers cut through anything, but it can't cut through you