It's currently 4am, the time when words like night and morning are mistaken... for it is both, yet neither. tired moths fly rythmatically into the bug zapper. souls escaping their bodies, stale light absorbing their souls. their bodies fall painting meaningless obscenities in the smoke left behind. corpses covered by dirt... the grass weeps for thee. bodies hallow lifeless... empty I am empty... void of social dependence, but full of understanding. understanding my pulse is still rapid. if only I were tired what an overlooked luxury?
this poem was supposed to symbolize the drones created by society. thank you.