And I have the most terrible feeling I wouldn't mind,
because it doesn't matter to me,
my childhood inventions, concepts,
all distraught and rusted,
my instincts, faded,
my sense of humanity, lacking.

But hey, I feel as if I'm charmed,
as if I'm charmed to not;
have emotions from cost benefit diagrams,
being enthralled because the higher ups said I should be melodious,
not being tricked into that the strident labor is the melody to gyrate by.

However,
my mind is nothing but a series of hallways,
polluted only with that truth, hazed by the fog,
only saying to people's argument "We'll all die in sixty, seventy years, why does any of this matter?"
letters from my mother, piling up,
having yet to give a reply,
that has been aging in my notebook for the past three months.

I feel trapped,
I feel as if I can't function,
the clogs in my brain moving counter-clockwise,
disobeying my false hopes,
disobeying the sight of the flowers on the ground,
and replacing them with thorns as if suitable.

As I watch the world function,
the riots, the massacres,
the back-stabs similar to Cesar,
their tears washing away with the sea,
their sentiment carried by the wind, and away again,
only to say "All is lost, and will be lost again."

But I'm joyed to know that,
eventually,
everything will be a blank slate,
nothing, nothing at all,
for I can tremble in fear,
only to see the purified reform,
and its empire crashing again.