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It is a sad day when the words won't come;

As my mind cries and my hands weep with sorrow,

I sit in an empty husk.

Burned at both ends.

Abdication of the senses has left,

Depersonalization ensues depravation,

Question and answer,

Function as a cog.

Function as a cog.

Fuck being a cog.

and still.


No glimmer of life on this planet, sir.

Politeness is a sweet facade,

as I function on such an insectine level,

Thrusting my mandibles forth and about in search of sweet nectar.

I would say dust has more honor and wind more truth,

but I am made of both,

and they are all that embrace me.

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